


Inamorato

by dylanssourwolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, BAMF Stiles, Bottom Derek, Bottom Derek Hale, Derek Feels, Derek Has Issues, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Feels, Teen Wolf, Top Stiles Stilinski, sterek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:25:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dylanssourwolf/pseuds/dylanssourwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a dreamer. It seems that it's one of the few ways he's able to keep his ADHD under control. But something soon starts to make his dreams restless, make them more vivid & panicked. Little does he know that his mate has come to protect him. He's forced the leather-clad werewolf out of hiding and he would stop at nothing for his inamorato.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Omega

             The rough leaves crunch below his feet, the earthen, wild smell flooding his senses. He doesn’t remember how he’d gotten himself in this situation, but it’s unimportant as he runs, flying around trees and over hills. He has no idea where he’s going, but he’s running from the heels thundering behind him. His head starts to spin, his legs numb, chest heavy. Branches whip at his face and lash at his calves as he leaps over a rock and down the bank. The growling is gaining, but he sees headlights indicating that the road is up ahead.

 

              _‘Almost,’_   he thinks,  _‘I’m almost there.’_

             A strangled cry erupts from his throat as a claw rips down his calf and grips his ankle hard enough to bruise, forcing him into the twigs and leaves on the forest floor. He thrashes, twists, catching a glimpse of the glowing scarlet eyes and the canines dripping with saliva, the horns on its head laced with blood. His fingers desperately search for a root, a branch,  _anything_. His breaths were clipped and panicked as he prepares himself for certain death.

             “DEREK!”

             He ignores the burning sensation in his throat and screams again, his heart pounding out of his chest as claws bury themselves in his lower back.

             “HELP ME!”

             His honey brown eyes glance in front of him and standing at the edge of the road is a tall, brooding man, built and menacing. Tears stream down his face and he tries to ignore the feeling of his warm blood soaking his clothes and forcing them to stick to his body. He’s really fucking done it this time.

             “DEREK!”

 

—

 

             He wakes up screaming in a cold sweat, sheets damp from perspiration. His body shakes violently, the only thing keeping him sitting upright are Scott’s hands on his shoulders. The clock stares at him with scarlet eyes, its number showing the time of 1:23 am.

             “Stiles, you okay?”

             Chest heaving, he nods, a single bead of sweat rolling down the bridge of his nose. He kicks the blankets off of his legs and rubs his calf, looking for evidence of claws, of torn flesh, but coming up with nothing. “Yeah, just had a nightmare.”

             Scott sits on the edge of his bed and hands Stiles a glass of water, encouraging his best friend to take it. “Did you want to talk about it?”

             Stiles sighs and ponders it for a moment, a throbbing pain in his lower back and his calf, but obviously nothing there. Did he really want to relive the hell he’d just gone through? Any normal person would’ve vouched on the  _hell no_  side, but then again, Stiles wasn’t normal.

             Deciding to make it as vague as possible, Stiles sighs, running his slender fingers through his unkempt bedhead. “I was in the woods, running from something. Presumably a wolf.” Scott didn’t need to know the whole truth.

             “Was it a werewolf?” Scott was always curious though. So much for vague. “Would I know him?”

             “Oh, for the love of—no, it was the fucking boogeyman. Yes, a werewolf, Scott!”

             Scott exhales, his jaw clenching at Stiles’s sarcasm.  “Whatever.”

             “It caught me, it dragged me down and clawed me. I-I couldn’t breathe, I—” he gasps, taking a deep breath, “I couldn’t _breathe_.”

             Scott embraces him, removing the glass from his hands and setting it down on the nightstand beside his pillow. Stiles shook, half from fear, half from the open window Scott slid into his room through. “Scott, it’s one-thirty in the morning,” Stiles whispers. “Go before your mom finds out. Last time you were grounded it was a strict  _‘No Stiles’_  punishment. Don’t let it happen again.”

             “I was worried is all. I heard you screaming from my house,” Scott replies, tone full of concern.

             “Thank you. For coming. It means a lot.”

             Scott nods and makes his way to the windowsill. “You’re my best friend. I’ve gotta keep you safe.”

             Stiles smiles and yawns as Scott climbs out the window.

             “Oh, and Stiles?”

             He rubs his eyes. “Hmm?”

             “Who’s Derek?”

             Stiles shrugs and watches as Scott leaves.

 

—

 

             “DEREK!”

             That was all it took to get him out of the house. It’s not like he sleeps anyways. Ever since he started focusing on how his house smells of anguish and remorse, he can’t close his eyes without seeing his house up in flames and the hands reaching out from the vent in the cellar as his family burned to death. To him, the soot and the charred remains of the manor smelled like the terrifying memories of intense heat and burning flesh, combusting hopes and diminishing the lives of harmless people. They weren’t all wolves. Only a few. Like Kate gave a shit.  _She_  was mistake number one. If Derek hadn’t fallen in love with her, his family may still be alive. She hoped Derek was in that fire. She only wanted to rid the world of the Hale pack once and for all because if you lived in Beacon Hills, the Hale family was dangerous. Derek was a threat. He was an alleged murderer and arsonist, not to mention an extremely hot one to boot. His pale green eyes and jet black hair accented the chiseled edges of his jaw and his almost never shaven scruff. His physique was fantastic; strong shoulders and molded abdomen added to his looming figure and brooding features. That’s why people stay away and that’s why Derek has been in hiding for the past three years.

             Needless to say, his older sister, Laura, had survived the fire as well as his uncle, Peter. And Derek’s real stab in the ribs was when Laura died a few weeks ago, sliced in half. They’d found her and he’d known, it was an alpha. And to jab another blade into his already sensitive wound, that alpha was Peter. To avenge Laura, Derek had found his uncle and slashed his throat, Derek’s blue wolf eyes fading to red, indicating he was the new alpha. But Peter had been reborn during the worm moon, now the beta that Derek once was. Derek was definitely reluctant to trust him, but he had to because what Derek needs now is a pack. He needs everything he’s been avoiding for the past three years. He’s definitely scared about what’s to come because Derek knows by now that things around Beacon Hills don’t stay quiet for long.

             “HELP ME!”

             And that snaps him out of his thoughts. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but after putting off his wolf needs, specifically his mate search, for about three years, hearing someone screaming his name in desperation is definitely enough to spark his interest and maybe…a  _protective_  instinct?

             “DEREK!”

             And he’s flying around trees and through the underbrush in his bare feet. With a twitch of his neck, his running becomes more aboriginal. His eyes glow a bright scarlet and his animal instinct drives him down to all fours as he speeds in the direction of the scream. A growl erupts from his throat as he leaps over a bank and makes his way toward the road, catching a scent. It’s fresh and crisp, like a newly fallen rain, earthy and natural like a soft blanket of snow. It draws Derek in, steers him in the right direction.

             By the time he arrives at the house, his mind is whirring and he hears voices.

  
_“Did you want to talk about it?”_  

             Derek analyzes,  _‘Boy, sixteen.’_

_“I was in the woods, running from something. Presumably a wolf.”_

             Derek’s heart thumps loudly in his ears. He knows he’s the one.  _‘Also boy, sixteen.’_  Derek can sense his fear and panic. He also senses that he isn’t telling the whole truth.

  
_“Was it a werewolf? Would I know him?”_  Derek can tell the first boy is curious. 

              _‘Figures,’_  Derek thinks, scrunching his nose,  _‘I knew I smelled a beta.’_

         _“Oh, for the love of—no, it was the fucking boogeyman. Yes, a werewolf, Scott!”_

             Derek gives a small grin at the use of heavy sarcasm. He hears the first boy, Scott, exhale.

             _“Whatever.”_

              _“It caught me. It dragged me down and clawed me. I-I couldn’t breathe. I—”_  Derek hears the other boy gasp, taking a deep breath before he continues,  _“I couldn’t_ breathe. _”_

             Derek frowns, his heart clenching at the pain he detects in the boy’s voice.  _‘Who is this kid?’_  He snaps out of his thoughts and crawls to the other side of the roof as he hears Scott climbing out the window.

_“Oh, and Stiles?”_

             Derek hums.  _‘Stiles.’_

             _“Hmm?”_

             _“Who’s Derek?”_

             Derek’s keen hearing picks up the sound of Stiles’s shoulder popping as he shrugs. He holds back a growl as Scott runs off, giving him some time to calm down. His heart still pounds in his ears and his breathing is still choppy from the exhausting run over here. He grunts, moving into a sitting position on the roof, taking a deep breath and purring at the earthy scent that was emanating from Stiles’s window. Derek’s jade eyes flutter shut and he finds himself drawn to the window, sliding it open quietly and climbing into the small bedroom.

             He has to prevent himself from moaning because  _damn_ , the bedroom smells delicious. A wave of air hits him and his heart picks up again, thumping fast, making his chest feel as if it were on fire. He closes his eyes and lets the scents flood in, pictures of the woods, fall, leaves, rain dance behind his eyelids. Stiles smells like nature, and it’s absolutely  _intoxicating._  Derek opens his eyes and glances at a sleeping Stiles before he vanishes out the window.

 

—

 

             Derek wakes in the woods the next morning, alongside a fallen tree. Almost immediately, he longs to smell the rain and the soil the is Stiles. Taking a step forward, his ears perk up and the sound of approaching footsteps tells him to run.

             So he does.

             He bolts straight ahead, toward the road, dodging trees and rocks when an arrow whizzes by his head and lodges itself in the tree behind him. He leaps forward, another arrow missing him barely. With a twitch of his neck, he roars, his eyes flaring red, canines bared in the direction of which the arrow had come. He can feel the bones in his back reshaping, twisting as fur sprouts all over his body. His feet turn to paws and his body writhes until he’s fully shifted into his wolf form. 

             Growling, he takes off once again, weaving through trees when suddenly, he’s thrown backward by the force of a bullet penetrating his lower ribcage. He feels the stinging pain and pick himself up to keep running, as his instinct tells him to. 

His speed decreases as he pads across the road and he feels the warm blood dripping from the wound. Stopping to rest, he’s too weak to shift back, so he stands for a moment in the road before continuing across to lie in the underbrush in the woods on the other side.

 

—

 

              _‘Are you close?’_

             Stiles grumbles, kicking a stick as he treks through the woods. “Sure, Scott. Just gimme a minute, I woke up late.” Stiles grimaces as the lies slip past his lips. 

              _‘Just hurry.’_  And he hangs up.

             Stiles tucks his cell into his back pocket and sighs, letting the cool morning air envelop him in its mist. He used to take walks in the woods with his mother before she died and the awful nightmare he’d had the night before really made him miss her. She’d always been the one to comfort him. Since his dad had been working a double shift, he hadn’t even known Stiles had a nightmare. Stiles shakes his head at the thought of the hard-working man. He glances up at the trees and back down at his feet as he hurriedly makes his way back to his Jeep that he’d parked deep in the woods.

             A vulture lands to his right, causing him to stop and watch as the bird ducks into the underbrush. A growl so low Stiles barely hears it erupts from the brush and one, two, three of the birds scatter out. Stiles glances around before walking toward the bush. He freezes upon seeing red eyes, but upon noticing the tentative gaze they're holding, he approaches them. Pulling back the ferns, Stiles sees the extent of the wolf’s injury. He gently places a hand on the wolf’s side, reveling in the softness of the black fur before he gazes at the wolf again.

             “I’m not going to hurt you, okay? I’m just gonna take a look at you.” 

             The wolf seems to understand and closes its eyes, as if giving the ‘OK’ to Stiles.

             Stiles pets the animal timidly and examines the injury. It looks to be a bullet wound, but with no bullet. He looks at the wolf’s face again and strokes its ear, completely forgetting about going to school. He vaguely remembers having some gauze in his car for all the times Scott needs to patch himself up, so he mutters a quick, ‘Be right back,’ to the wolf before racing in the direction of his Jeep. 

The fact that his car was a mess may have been more or less obstructive in this situation. Finding the gauze seemed to be a harder task than usual, Stiles eventually locating it under his lacrosse jersey and a box of condoms that he’d obviously never opened. Thanks to all those times Stiles had to cover for Scott in the animal clinic, he knows a thing or two about treating wild animals. He also knows he should call somebody for help. He’s a bit indecisive in reaching for his cell phone to dial Scott’s number, but then decides against it, knowing all he would do is tell Stiles to get his ass to school. Against his better judgment, he moves the ferns and approaches the animal. The look he is given is ferocious. It reminded him a bit of his dream the night before and he steps back. The wolf is distrustful and Stiles is scared it might attack him. 

             “Hey, you need my help as much as I need you to cooperate.” Stiles feels a bit ridiculous talking to the wolf, but realizes that it may have worked, as the wolf seemingly understands and allows Stiles to approach him. Stiles carefully wraps the gauze around the wolf’s lower abdomen, mindlessly chattering to the wolf about whatever comes to his mind because maybe,  _just maybe_ , he forgot to take his Adderall.

             The next day, Stiles comes back to the woods with a bottle of alcohol and a fresh roll of gauze, finding the wolf to be in the same place as the day before. He sits with it, softly, soothingly scratching behind its ears and rubbing its side. He cleans the wound this time, but by the looks of it, it seems to be getting worse. The animal looks physically drained and Stiles starts to worry. He doesn’t mind taking care of it, he actually likes having this weird friendship with the wolf. At least it isn’t obsessed with its girlfriend like his supposed “best friend”. 

             “Aren’t you lonely? I’d think you’d have your pack here surrounding you.” Stiles says, gently rewrapping the wolf’s abdomen. “It’s okay, I don’t have much of a pack either.”

             The wolf stares at Stiles, who’s hand is frozen over the wolf’s heart. 

             “My mom died when I was little and my dad’s been working a lot lately. My best friend is obsessed with his girlfriend and the girl I’d been pining over for years is consumed in her studies ever since her boyfriend’s father moved him to London. So right now, you’re like my little pack.” 

             Stiles stays with the wolf the rest of the day because he’s afraid he’ll die if he leaves him.

             Stiles comes to visit the wolf again and what he sees isn’t pleasant. He unwraps the gauze and frowns as the veins around the wound have turned black. He seriously needs to take this wolf to the animal clinic.  _‘Might as well clean him up,’_  Stiles thinks. He reaches for the alcohol and— _shit, the alcohol_. Stiles bolts for his Jeep and retrieves the alcohol, but when he returns to the underbrush where the wolf is—er, was—he finds that the wolf really isn’t a wolf at all. 

             “It was a wolfsbane bullet,” the guy says and Stiles is not freaking out. He’s got more bizarre dreams than that.

             “You need to…“

             The man—which, apparently, previously was a wolf—a wolfman, then—spits out some blood and collapses on top of Stiles and alright,  _that is so not a dream._  He can smell the nauseating stench of decay. And it’s not okay.

             “Hey, hey, look at me buddy. You’re gonna be fine. I’m taking you to the hospital…uh, alright,  _stop growling_ , no hospitals then.”

             “Deaton,” the man gasps, his pale fingers gripping Stiles’s shoulders, “Take me to the clinic.”

             Stiles doesn’t question how he knows who Deaton is, just helps him to his Jeep. He digs around his backseat and tosses the guy a pair of sweatpants because, well,  _he’d rather not drive a naked guy around._  When he’s in the car and Stiles tries to close the passenger door, a hand clasps around his wrist and the guy tugs him closer.

             “It’s Derek. My name’s Derek.

 

—

 

             Stiles arrives at the veterinary clinic and he gets out of the Jeep as quickly as he can, running to the passenger side to help Derek out. As soon as Derek’s feet hit the asphalt, he grips Stiles’s shoulder and turns his head, body heaving as a black liquid spills from his lips.

             “W-What the hell is that?” Stiles whines, keeping a grip on Derek’s arm to make sure he stays upright.

             Derek takes a labored breath before he speaks. “My body…is trying…to heal itself.” He uses his free hand to wipe his mouth. “I need you…to take me…inside.”

             Stiles nods and helps Derek hobble into the clinic. “Deaton! I have an emergency!”

             Pushing into the examination room, he helps Derek onto the table as Deaton walks in. 

             “Hello, Derek,” he says calmly, and Derek nods in response. Deaton assesses the damage and Stiles stops pacing once the veterinarian glances up at him.

             “Will he be okay?”

             Deaton’s eyes flicker from Derek to Stiles. “Do you want me to answer truthfully?

             “...no…” Stiles replies, moving out of the room to dial Scott’s number.

_‘Stiles! Where the hell have you been! Don’t answer that. Just—‘_

             “Scott, listen to me. I’m at the clinic. You need to get here now.”

_‘Why are you—‘_

             “Now, Scott!” And he hangs up before Scott can say anything else.Stiles makes his way tentatively back into the exam room just in time to see Deaton setting a pile of dried wolfsbane on fire. Derek is paler than he was a few minutes ago, if that was even possible. Stiles has to avoid gagging at the smell and the sight of Derek’s gunshot wound. The veins in the area around the bullet hole were black, and like snakes, slowly traveled up his chest. 

             “Is that contagious?” he questions, earning a glare from Derek.

             Stiles watches as Deaton takes the wolfsbane and presses it into the wound, causing a roar to rip from Derek’s throat. His eyes flash from a soft jade to a blistering scarlet, his claws scratching at the cool metal of the exam table.

             Stiles feels a shiver run down his back as a flashback of his dream plagues him, the eyes boring into his soul, the claws digging onto his flesh. 

             He gasps as he comes back to reality, watching as Derek writhes in pain on the table, painful screams tearing their way from his lips, and Stiles’s expression read amazement as the wound heals itself.

             “That…was…awesome!” he shrieks, jumping halfway out of his skin when Scott’s hand is laid on his shoulder, the look on his face waiting or an explanation.

             “I found him dying in the woods and brought him here.” Scott doesn’t need to know the whole truth.

             “Who is he?”

             “His name’s Derek. Derek Hale. I vaguely remember my dad working the case about three years ago. He was accused of arson when his house went up in flames, his family in it,” Stiles scowls. “Turns out the one who actually did it was the psychotic aunt of your girlfriend.”

             Scott doesn’t seem fazed. He seems to be pondering a thought when an epiphanic look wipes across his face. 

             Stiles waves a hand in front of Scott’s face. “What’d I say?”

             “Stiles, I think that’s the Derek you dreamed about.”

             Stiles’s jaw drops and his eyes roam over to Derek’s frame. He’s standing; his body lean and tall, his figure muscular and pensive.

             His silhouette is brooding.

             Stiles’s mind flashes back to his dream. The figure he was calling out to…the dark, sexy, contemplative figure…looks  _exactly_ like Derek.


	2. Chaos Rising

 

             "His eyes were red, Scott."

             "What do you want me to tell you, Stiles?"

             Stiles groans, his anxious hand clutching the gear shift to put his jeep in second. "I wanna know what in the hell he is." Stiles's heart races, his thoughts whirring into overdrive. He knows about lycanthropy. It used to be a myth to him until he and Scott went searching for a dead body in the woods and Scott got completely fucked up. Now, lycanthropy is his second language. But _red eyes?_  Stiles hasn't heard about red eyes yet.

             "He's obviously a werewolf, okay? He smelled like dog, I can tell you that much." Scott's nose wrinkles at the remembrance of Derek's scent. "Like  _wild_  dog. Not like me."

             Stiles slams on the brakes, turning to look at Scott with idea written in the dilated pupils of his honey brown eyes. "Can you trace it?"

             And that's how they end up in the woods near the spot where Stiles picked up bullet-ridden, _naked_ , werewolf-esque Derek. _Sexy, sexy Derek._

             Stiles mindlessly follows Scott as he tracks the scent from whence it came. Half of Stiles hopes that Derek's going to be wherever the fuck this trail ends and the other half wants Derek to be gone so that they can snoop and maybe get some answers about what the fuck hunters are and why they hate wolves so much and why Derek's eyes are red and how the hell Stiles manages to get shoved and dragged into every single god damned werewolf mystery.

             And before he knows it, Stiles happens to barrel right into a bent over Scott, causing them to fall so they're both sprawled in the leaves.

             "I've  _told_  you, I don't roll that way, Stiles."

             Stiles breaks from his trance and climbs off of Scott, wondering why the hell Derek all of a sudden mattered to him. He just shakes it off and throws a glare at Scott, who happens to be staring at an arrow lodged in the trunk of a tree. Fear washes over Stiles and he doesn't know why. He gets an overwhelming feeling of rage and of dread like something bad is coming and someone is watching him. Scott continues on his way while Stiles is still glued to his place in front of the arrow, fright in his features, body starting to visibly shake. Stiles knows now that someone is watching him when he hears Scott yell a  _"Hello?"_  from about five feet away. Stiles clenches his jaw and is shaking more now, breaths starting to become ragged and choppy.

             " _S-Scott_ ," he stutters in a whisper, falling to his knees. But Scott is too busy investigating an underground something or other by the rocks. And now Stiles is on his side, gasping for breath, eyes wide and displaying fear in every centimeter of his dilated pupils. He clutches his knees to his chest, unable to catch his breath as he hyperventilates on the forest floor for a good thirty seconds before warm arms lift his body up. Tears stream down the sides of his face, tears of dread and pain, as he is moved to another location.

             "Stiles, try to breathe deeply. It's only a panic attack."

             And there was the man of his dreams. Mr. Derek Hale had just saved his life, taking him to the comfort of his bed. Stiles was less worried about how the fuck they got to Derek's house so goddamn  _fast_ , or why the hell he wouldn't bring him home to Sheriff Stilinski. He was lying in Derek Hale's fucking  _bed_.

             Upon opening his eyes, he was met with a jade stare, Derek's green orbs focused on every detail of Stiles's face. _'He is fucking gorgeous,'_  Stiles thinks, hoping to God Derek can't smell the arousal coming off of him. And if he could, Stiles hoped he wouldn't say it.

             "Keep it in your pants, Stiles." But just because Derek didn't say it doesn't mean Scott wouldn't.

             Stiles's mouth goes dry and a blush spreads all along his cheeks and neck, his eyes closing in embarrassment. He doesn't even want to  _think_  about the expression on Derek's face.

             "What the fuck do you think you're doing trespassing on  _MY_  property, McCall?"

             Stiles pops an eye open, meeting Scott's pleading gaze, Stiles practically hearing Scott's voice,  _"Help!"_

             But Stiles just shrugs,  _'Fucking keep it in my pants...let's see you bullshit your way out of this. Payback's a bitch!_ '

             "Well?" Derek starts getting impatient and he can smell the lies formulating in Scott's head mingling with the musk and arousal Stiles is giving off. "Fuck it. Just stay the hell off my property. Now go home, Scott."

             "I need my friend, Derek."

             Derek closes his eyes, seriously contemplating on saying,  _'No, I need to mark him first, you'll get him back tomorrow.'_  But he doesn't, instead only glaring at Stiles and flicking his neck toward the door. "You, too. Go."

             Stiles stands, brushing past Derek as he leaves with Scott. An electrical current surprises Derek when he feels the static from Stiles's clothes shock him as they bump arms. Stiles just mumbles an apology and walks out the door.

             "And take your goddamn Adderall, Stiles!”

             The front door slams and Derek leaps to the bottom of the staircase, huffing as he watches the pair walk back into the forest.

 

—

 

             Stiles climbs into bed, glancing at the clock that reads 11:09 pm in scarlet numbers. Taking a deep breath, Stiles glances at his window, contemplating whether or not to lock it.  _Uhhhh...._ he thinks he should lock it. But something in the back of his mind tells him not to.

             He goes downstairs to lock all the doors before he goes to bed. His dad's working another double shift and yeah, it bugs him a little bit, but he's the head sheriff and he's gotta do what he's gotta do. Stiles sighs because he really wishes he could spend more time with his dad, and being home alone all the time gets old. And it's not like his mom's there to comfort him after a nightmare.

  
_His mom._  God, he misses her like crazy. A tear wells up in the corner of his eye and he wipes it away before it has a chance to fall. He walks over to the photo of the two of them on the mantle and holds it, staring at their smiling faces. "I miss you," he whispers, clutching the frame in a vice, as if it were the only thing keeping him alive. He sniffles and puts it back, wiping his eyes again before sighing and going back upstairs.

             He doesn't lock the window.

 

—

 

             Derek can smell his earthy scent lingering in his mattress. It drives him crazy, even though Stiles is an annoying little shit. Derek is face down in his pilliow, inhaling, eyes shifting green, to red, to green again. It's intoxicating, almost to the point where he's fully shifted and running to Stiles to mark him. He wants to, God knows  _he wants to_. But he holds himself back.

             His head lifts when something interrupts the earthy scent. Another, faint, but also Stiles. It smells like...anxiety.

Derek jumps up, and bolts out of the house in nothing but pajama pants and weaves through the woods. He gets to the road and runs, and he doesn't look back.

             Then he hears the faint whisper.

              _"Derek...save me."_

             And Derek's shifting, dropping to all fours and pushing his body to go faster.

             Once he gets to the house, he smells someone—some _thing_ , rather—and stops. _'It's not like us,'_  he thinks,  _'and it's not like Stiles either.'_  But whatever it was, it was hurting Stiles. Derek hears the whimpers coming from the window and swings up onto the roof and slides the window open with ease. He watches as Stiles writhes around and he looks for the other scent.

             Stiles cries out and Derek stops, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder.

             "Stiles," he says, gently shaking him. "Stiles wake up."

             An agonizing scream tears from Stiles's throat and fear washes over Derek.

             Now he's shaking Stiles awake, both hands on his shoulders. "Stiles! Wake up!"

             And he does, gasping for air. His body glistens with perspiration and his face is red with exertion. He's panting, rubbing his eyes and bracing himself against the mattress. "W-What happened?"

             "You had a nightmare. Do you know what about?"

             Stiles frowns, trying to remember, but he can't. "I-I don't know, I can't remember."

             And it hits Derek like a brick. He didn't smell the second something the night before, and Stiles remembered his dream, vividly it seemed. "The Baku. It took your nightmare."

             "I'm sorry, I don't speak gibberish." And Derek already wants to punch Stiles in the face.

 

—

 

             "What the fuck is a Baku?"

             Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, shooting Scott a glare. "Didn't you  _just_  study mythology last period? It's—"

             "A Japanese spirit that devours dreams and nightmares. It has the trunk of an elephant, the eyes of a rhinoceros, tail of an ox, and the feet of a tiger." Everyone stares at Lydia. "What?"

             "It's supposed to protect against pestilence and evil, which in this case, is not good," continues Derek.

             "Why?"

             Derek glares at Allison and turns to her. "Something bad is coming. Stiles fucking knows it. He can't remember what the hell it is if this goddamned spirit keeps sucking his dreams right out of him! Don't you get it?" Derek clenches his fists before anyone notices his claws that have decided to emerge.

             Stiles puts a hand on Derek's shoulder and runs it comfortingly. It relaxes him, he wants it to stay forever, but Stiles can't know, at least not now.

             Derek turns and shifts his eyes from Stiles to the hand on his shoulder with the same brooding expression he always wears, Stiles getting the hint and awkwardly removing his hand.

             He looks at Stiles, meeting his honey brown eyes and says, "After school,  _my house_. We need to get the dreams out of you. Don't be late."

             And with that, Derek stalks off in the direction of his black Camaro.

             "What crawled up his ass and died? Jesus," Stiles remarks, glancing back at the Camaro as it speeds off.

             The three stare at him, eyebrows raised.

_"What?"_

             "You have the most  _obvious_  crush on him," Lydia says, smiling.

             Scott chimes in, "I'm pretty sure he has the same thing going on for you, bro. He may be a good werewolf but he can't control his emotions. I could smell the arousal coming off of him in waves."

             Stiles smiles a bit and nods toward the cafeteria, "Let's eat lunch."

             Stiles spends the entire lunch period looking through his mythology book, alternating page flips and sandwich bites. He comes across a page and something in his arm twitches. He looks down at the picture of the Erchitu. He's stricken with fear and hastily closes the book, grabbing it and his bag as he trips and makes his way out to his Jeep, the entire cafeteria questioningly watching him.

             Speeding down the road, Stiles tries to remember any details about his dream. He  _can't_ , he can't remember  _anything_. Although he is definitely sure about one thing: this Erchitu is coming. This thing was in his dream and Derek doesn't have to believe him, but he needs to because whatever this thing is, it's not a one man fight. It's terrifying and Stiles knows it isn't the last time he's going to dream about it.

             He nearly falls out of his Jeep when he gets to Derek's and the man is already outside waiting for him.

             "I could hear your piece of shit Jeep a mile down the road."

             Stiles rolls his eyes. "She runs, doesn't she?"

             Derek approaches him and Stiles is starting to think his face is permanently in a scowl. "I thought I said after school."

             "Well, this can't wait, Derek."

             Derek sighs and nods toward the house. "Come."

             When they get inside, Stiles drops his bag an opens the mythology book on the dusty table that looks like it hasn't been used in ages. "So I was looking through this at lunch and I still can't remember anything."

             Cue Derek's eye roll.

             " _But_ ," Stiles continues, "I flipped to a page and my chest got tight, like I couldn't breathe. My arm started twitching and fear washed over me. I can't even look at it."

             Derek seemed curious. "What page?" He walks over to the book and opens it, glancing at Stiles for an answer.

             "Like I fucking know! I closed it!"

             Cue Derek's jaw clench.

             "Stiles. Find the page  _now_."

             Stiles shook his head.

             "Find the page or I'm going to gut you like a fish."

             "You know, I'm starting to get tired of your empty threats, Der—"

             And Stiles was against the wall, held up by Derek's hand fisting his shirt. "You wanna play games, Stiles?"

             "I-I suppose I  _could_  flip through some pages."

             And down he goes.

             Derek watched as Stiles flipped through pages, stopping at one that seemed to freeze him in his spot.

             "It's that," Stiles says, "Fucking get it away from me, Derek."

             He does, picking up the book and glancing at the photo. His jade eyes lace with red and he takes a deep breath to prevent himself from shifting out of fear. This was something his family had dealt with ages ago. Now, he only had one family member and a group of teenagers to fight this thing. Derek was beyond scared.

             "What is it?" Stiles inquires.

             Derek stares at the picture. "It's like us, like me. But it's—it's not right. It's like a, uh..."

             "An abomination," Stiles finishes.

             "Yeah."

             "What are you gonna do?"

             Derek turns to Stiles. "I'm gonna find it, and I'm gonna kill it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing plenty of research on mythology and trying to come up with another monster to incorporate. So bear with me here.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr: AllForStilesTW
> 
> Much love,
> 
> —A


	3. Pack Mentality

 

             "Is it bad?"

             Derek ignores Stiles's whining and continues to pace in front of the weathered staircase. 

             "I feel like its bad."

              _'Stiles, seriously, be quiet.'_ Of course it's bad, because _any_ time that Derek is involved with something, supernatural or not, it's bad. Honestly, he's trying to work with the pack he was given—well, his makeshift pack because _not in a million years is Stiles in his pack_ —that consists of a teen wolf, his psychotic uncle, a hunter, a human with maniacal hallucinations that used him to _resurrect_ his psychotic uncle (everyone's been filled in on that whole clusterfuck but they don't talk about it), and some annoying little lusus naturae that smells like the fucking _rain_ that's dreaming about the Erchitu. Yeah...Derek's not feeling so good about this whole situation.

             Stiles groans and stands from where he was seated on the stairs, sweeping his hands up from the back of his neck to around the top of his head, ruffling his hair. "I can't take waiting around like this, ya know?" 

  
_'Jesus, Stiles. SHUT UP.'_ Derek refrains from punching the teen in the face, and then kissing the bruise he makes. 

             "It's nerve wracking. My nerves are wracked, they're severely wracked. _Wra—_ "

             "I could beat you unconscious and wake you when it's over." 

             Sighing, Stiles resumes his seat, continuing to rub the back of his head. _What a fucking sourwolf_.

             Moments pass before Stiles speaks again, "What are we even waiting for? If it wanted to attack us, why doesn't it already?"

             Derek abruptly stops. His arms cross in front of his red henley, biceps bulging against the seams of the short sleeves. "That's what I'm trying to figure out." He hasn't quite been able to determine the intentions of this thing yet. Although Derek does know one thing, it's here for a reason. 

             Derek mind had told him, " _CallPeterCallPeter_." So he did, but only because he had to. Otherwise, there was no way he would  because _damn,_ Peter's an _asshole_.

             "I called Peter."

             Stiles visibly grimaces. "From what you've told me about him, I don't think that was such a good idea." 

             The daylight shone in through the dilapidated shutters in the room adjacent to the staircase, falling on the left side of Derek's face. "He's dealt with something like this before, Stiles."

             "You know Scott doesn't trust him, right? And personally, I, well, I trust Scott."

             Stiles's breath catches in his throat when Derek's pale jade eyes gleam in the light. He's positive that Derek can feel all the times he's staring at him, but he doesn't say anything because...well, he's Derek and since when does _anything_ Derek does make sense?

             "Do you trust me?"

             He tries hard not to hesitate, but the answer just doesn't want to come out. Derek can practically smell the conflict in Stiles's head and predicts the answer before it comes out of Stiles's mouth.

             "Yes."

              And Derek's pacing again.

             "I still don't like him."

             The older man scoffs, "Nobody likes him."

             The door swings open, nearly missing Derek's shoulder as Peter steps into the house. 

             "Boys. FYI, coming back from the dead has left my abilities somewhat impaired, but the hearing still works. So I hope you're comfortable saying whatever it is you were feeling straight to my face."

             Derek doesn't skip a beat. "We don't like you. Now shut up and help us."

             Peter clenches his jaw. "Fair enough."

             Stiles grimaces and makes no attempt to talk to Peter. He knows Derek will force him to eventually and he's going to make sure Derek does just that, because there's no way in hell he's going to talk to Peter willingly. He doesn't want to end up like Lydia. For all he knows, speaking to Peter will result in him getting possessed, shot, or maimed, all of which Stiles is competely _NOT_ okay with.

             He's also not okay with the way Derek gives him a glare and nudges his head toward Peter. "Tell him Stiles."

             Stiles just keeps his mouth shut because Peter's crouched on the stair right in front of him, looking him up and down with a scrutinizing regard. Frankly, Stiles _isn't_ a piece of meat, and he _doesn't_ like to be treated like one.

             "Him?" Peter's icy gaze swings to Derek. "This is the one that's dreaming about the Erchitu? He's more... _irritating_ than you described."

             Now he's offended. "Um, at least I'm not some resurrected _asshole_ that likes to turn teenagers into hallucinating zombies that flip their shit on a full moon." Stiles doesn't break eye contact when he waves his hands in front of him. "Now you better back the _fuck_ up." Stiles is damn near proud of himself for standing up to this dickhead when his mental celebratory pat on the back is interrupted by Derek reaching through the bars in the railing to yank him forward by his shirt, his face in front of Derek's against the decomposing banister.

             "Tell him what you know or I'm going to rip your intestines out with my bare hands."

             Stiles grunts, extremely vexed by Derek and his lack of follow-throughs. "Is that a promise?" Derek clenches his jaw and snarls at Stiles, but that's gotten old very quickly because once Scott had started doing it about a month after the bite, Stiles started to ignore it. "Nice try, Der, but teeth-gnashing gets you nowhere." So Derek growls again and releases him—reluctantly because Derek fucking _loves_ the way Stiles smells and having him that close was just damn near intoxicating—and he starts pacing again.

             "If you're not going to help, then go home, Stiles. Dream about the Erchitu. I hope it kills you in your sleep again."

             The words fall from Derek's lips before he realizes his mistake.

             "How the hell do you know about that?"

             Derek's mind fumbles to formulate some lie that sounds remotely plausible when Stiles practically leaps down the stairs—maybe Derek was rubbing off on him _a bit_ —to threaten Derek with the can of pepper spray his father forces him to carry now—maybe Derek was rubbing off on him _a lot_ , but at least he'd follow through with his threats—until he tells him how the fuck _he_ knows about that dream.

            "Really? You're threatening me with pepper spray?"

            And Stiles swears his teeth are going to be ground down to nubs by the end of this debacle. It dawns on him though, a wave of realization.

            "You heard me, too."

            "I'm surprised the whole fucking _neighborhood_ didn't hear you," Derek retorts, snatching the pepper spray from Stiles, "and get something else to defend yourself with because this pepper spray is shit." He tosses the can somewhere and Stiles doesn't bother to look for it. He just sighs and sits on the staircase again. 

            "Can we speed this up? It takes almost a half an hour to get from my apartment to here."

            Both men glare at Peter.

 

—

 

             By the time Peter had left, Derek was ready to just shoot himself in the head. If he's learned anything, it's to never in a million years put Stiles in the same room as Peter because they will hurl insults at each other. His favorite did come from Stiles though—despite the fact that he was being particularly annoying as fuck—when he'd just looked at Derek and asked, "Would someone please kill him again?"

             Derek sighs, pacing. 

             Stiles glares at him from the stairs. "I can't believe you didn't tell me."

             "It wasn't necessary."

             Stiles stands and briskly skins down the stairs to squall at the back of Derek's head. "The fuck it wasn't! You came in _my_ fucking house, Derek! I don't understand how that's _NOT_ important." Stiles is furious. He isn't so furious that Derek had done it, but more so that he hadn't told Stiles. "That's seriously creepy, dude."

             Derek rolls his eyes and whips around to meet Stiles's irascible gaze with a provoked one of his own. "What would you do, huh? You hear some immature little _shit_ screaming for you in the middle of the night and you do what, ignore it? Well, that might be you, Stiles, but that's not me!" Derek huffs and pinches the bridge of his nose, turning away from Stiles's bewildered expression. "Everyone around me gets hurt. I don't want—I  _can't_ lose anyone else." 

             Stiles minces. "Derek, I—"

             "It doesn't matter. Just go home, Stiles. Be a normal teenager." Derek stalks up the stairs leaving Stiles to wallow in guilt. 

             He considers following Derek upstairs but decides against it, instead choosing to gather his things and watch the top of the staircase longingly. He knew Derek was miserable after his family's death—Stiles may or may not have done some digging in Derek's case file at the station—but he never knew just _how_ miserable Derek was. Being the little detective he is, Stiles figures it was probably the fact that the love of Derek's life, aka Allison's lunatic aunt, decided to set his house on fire with the hope that Derek was inside. He can't help but feel a bit dickish with how he acted toward Derek, granted Derek was a bit of a dick himself. 

             Stiles just goes straight home because _wow_ , he's spent the past three hours at Derek's impoverished manor talking about supernatural shit and there's no point in going back to school halfway through the last period of the day. The entire way home, he starts feeling guiltier and guiltier. He knows he should apologize but would Derek even listen? 

              _'Probably not,'_ he decides as he parks his jeep in his driveway and heads his the house. His dad's at work and he suddenly feels lonely in his own house. Heading upstairs, he drops his backpack and sits at the computer, choosing to take some Adderall to curb his panic attacks while he researches this Erchitu thing. 

             His phones buzzes in the corner of his desk and he reaches for it, seeing a text from an unknown number.

_'I'm coming over.'_

             Stiles glances around, trying to figure out who this is hopefully before they arrive at his home. His phone clatters on the floor when there's a knock at the door two seconds later. _'So much for notice.'_

             Stiles hesitantly heads downstairs and stands behind the door, trying to find some kind of weapon just in case.

             "For Christ's sake, Stiles. I can hear your fucking _heartbeat_ through the door. Just let me in."

             Stiles relaxes and is immediately nettled. _'Fucking Derek.'_

             He swings the door open and even through all his annoyance, his breath still catches at the sight of Derek in his leather jacket. He tries to mask the fact that he's just fucking drooling at the way the jacket pulls over Derek's biceps and tugs tight across his abs. 

             "Are you gonna let me in?"

             That seems to snap him out of it. "Oh—yeah, right. Please, enter, _O Mighty One_." 

             Derek rolls his eyes at the caustic remark and pushes past Stiles to remove his jacket and drape it over the back of a dining room chair.

             He sighs and leans against the back of the chair. "It killed someone last night," he says, and Stiles detects some distress in his tone. "Word is, your father has the case." 

             Stiles forgets about being snarky and moves to the chair across from Derek. "This morning he told me he had a case about some guy they found that committed suicide. But no weird supernatural thing."

             "This was a girl." Derek pinches the bridge of his nose and tries his best to tolerate the teenager because being in close proximity with him drives him crazy more ways than one. 

             Stiles jumps up and shouts, "Gimme a minute," while dashing upstairs, giving Derek a bit of time to himself. The house reeks of nature. It seems as though Stiles is really the only one that lives here. He inhales deeply, picking up mostly a single scent that he can identify as Stiles as he makes his way around the house, realizing how it looks like his once did. Before the fire, their mantle was littered with family photos and trinkets, focus items that had long run out of juice, jewels and rings that were collected as souvenirs from previous battles. They'd even had a horn from the time they'd defeated the Erchitu long before he was born. 

             His mom had an obsession with the triskele, having ones that represented the Trinity, the three realms. His mother had a necklace with a triskele, representing her three children: Laura, Derek, and Cora. After the fire, they recovered it. They'd given it to Derek and he'd broken down in tears. He let Laura have it because she was the elder and after all, that's what his mom would've wanted. 

             After Laura's death, the necklace was in his possession. He kept it safe, but he didn't wear it. He had his own triskele, a tattoo on his back. It represented plenty of things, the three important women in his life: Laura, Cora, and his mother, but more importantly, it represented Alpha, Beta, Omega.

             Derek is staring at the picture of Stiles's mom he's holding in his hands as the teen comes barreling down the stairs with a case file.

             "Derek, I—" Stiles stops abruptly when he sees what Derek's holding. He walks up and smiles a bit at the picture Derek has in his hands. It's of Stiles when he was a toddler and his mom, the pair at the zoo. "She was my best friend, you know. She died when I was ten."

             Derek senses that Stiles really hasn't gotten over her death and that he blames himself for it. "You have her eyes."

             Stiles nods and holds back tears as he ponders his mother's passing. It's always been a sensitive topic for him. He seems to snap back into it when Derek sets the photo back where he got it, the teen waving a case file in his face.

             "This file is dated for yesterday. It says cause of death is unknown."

             Derek snatches it and moves to the table, splaying the contents of the file across the mahogany surface. "She was seventeen. But why her?"

             No response.

             "Stiles?"

             Derek looks up from where his nose is buried in the police report and sees Stiles staring at the photos from the scene. "What is it?"

             Stiles's eyes frantically flicker over the photos and a single tear drips down his cheek. "I-I knew her. Her name's Heather." 

             Derek moves the photos back into the Manila folder and away from Stiles. "We can hold off, figure out another way to find this thing if—"

             "No."

             Derek seems skeptical. "You're sure?" He just wants to embrace the teen and kiss him until everything's okay.

             "I went to preschool with this girl, alright? Our moms were best friends, Derek. We used to take friggin' bubble baths together when we were three. I gotta know what happened."

             Derek completely understands. Hell, he's had enough losses to know exactly what Stiles is feeling. He hates the stench of sadness and remorse that's emanating off of Stiles. It smells like charcoal, like burning wood... _like his house_.

             Derek moves to step outside for some fresh air, trying to clear his head and his nose. 

             He glances up and sees a pair of red eyes glaring at him from the bushes. 

             He turns briefly to the sliding glass door and opens it a crack. "I'm staying the night."

             "Way to give me a _choice_ ," Stiles retorts, leaving Derek fuming. 

             When Derek turns back, the eyes are gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the feedback I've gotten so far. I'm glad you like it.
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr: AllForStilesTW
> 
> Much love, 
> 
> —A


	4. Unleashed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some insight on how my mind is working right now and how I responded to some questions. 
> 
> This new enemy is actually a real myth, its a half-bull, half-man creature. I don't think I'm going to put Gerard in here just because I really hated him (well, hate him since he isn't dead) and I didn't put Jackson in it because I figure there may be a bit too much going on. Danny may be briefly mentioned, and I may or may not make him join the human side of the pack. I haven't decided whether or not I'm going to add in Boyd, Erica, and Isaac, but there is a possibility I might. Stiles is going to find out Derek's the alpha in the next chapter and Peter's just going to be the same kind of dickbag he is so far in Season 3 of the show; He's pretty much going to stand around, claim he isn't up to fighting speed yet, and criticize everything Derek does. I'm trying to kind of make this a mix of seasons 1,2 and 3 without some of the huge problems like the Kanima and the alpha pack.

 

             "Why are you staying again?"

             Stiles was less than thrilled that Derek had decided to pick tonight to have a fucking little red riding hood sourwolf sleepover.

             "Because I said so. That's why." _'Must you question everything?'_

             "Well guess what, buddy? _My_ house, _my_ rules. _Because I said so_ doesn't cut it. So tell me wh—"

             "I'm trying to protect you, okay? Now shut up about it and go to bed."

             Stiles's confounded gaze rests on the musing crinkles of Derek's forehead. "I'm a big boy, Derek."

             "Yeah, well, that _thing_ in your backyard had red fucking eyes, Stiles! Are you planning on going at the half bull-half man abhorrence with your can of pepper spray?" 

             Stiles opens and closes his mouth in contemplation but instead chooses to answer, "...no."

             "Then I'm staying," Derek plops into Stiles's desk chair and yawns, "to keep watch. Now go to bed."

             Derek sighs and yawns again, his body feeling weak and exhausted from the past few days. He angles his body toward the locked window in Stiles's room watching the waxing luminary float in the starry sky. He remembers when he was younger, his family used to go for runs in the woods. The whole family, no matter what they were doing, would drop everything and they'd all shift and run through the woods and it felt so good to just escape from everything. 

             "You're not seriously going to stay up all night."

             Derek rolls his neck and takes a deep breath, smelling the scent of rain and cinnamon sugar. "Yep. If I can get a look at this thing—"

             "Derek, you look like you're going to drop from debilitation any second. Take my bed, I'll take the floor."

             "You're _not_ sleeping on the floor," Derek stands to snatch the blanket out of Stiles's hands before he lays it on the floor beside his bed, "Besides, if I can get a good look at this thing, maybe—"

             Stiles grabs the blanket back and stands in front of Derek in nothing but the boxers he's sleeping in. "You saying _Sourwolf_ doesn't need his sleep?" 

             Derek swipes the blanket back and involuntarily rakes his eyes up Stiles's lean, slightly defined body only to clench his jaw and refrain from knocking the kid's teeth out. "I'm _saying_ , I can't keep you alive if I'm sleeping."

             "And _I'M_ saying," Stiles attempts to yank the blanket from Derek's grip but it appears futile as the werewolf had it in a vice, "your senses of werewolf-itude will kick in if something attempts to break through my window." Stiles wants to reach out and rub his thumb across Derek's cheek because the poor thing looks like he hasn't slept in years. "You need to rest."

             Throwing in the towel, Derek rolls his eyes. "Fine," he stands and pulls the blanket from Stiles's hands, "but I'm _not_ sleeping in your bed. It's _your_ bed. I'll take the couch—"

             "No! I, uh—you can't..." Stiles paces, thinking up a solution. "You have to stay in here. If my dad sees you, _well_...he may or may not shoot you."

             ' _Lovely_.' Derek pinches the bridge of his nose out of irritation. 

             Stiles grimaces in thought. _'I can't say that...I wouldn't be able to fucking survive with him next to me...'_ He turns to Derek and knows the older's either going to punch him in the face or quietly murder him in his sleep. "We could _share_...my bed? It's big enough...I mean, it's better than getting shot, right?" Stiles winces and waits for the punch that never comes.

             Derek's in complete shock from what just came from Stiles's mouth. _Is he nuts?_ "Whatever. Just stay on _your_ side of the bed." Yep, Derek knows he's fucked. He _knows_ he's gonna slip somehow. He knows _something's_ gonna go wrong and all of a sudden Stiles will be fully aware of Derek's unkindled love for him. Well, _fuck_.

             Ten minutes later, Stiles attempts _not_ to ogle Derek as the werewolf has no shame in stripping down to a wifebeater and his boxers. Derek's grumbling the entire time he's getting ready for bed, something about _teenagers being too fucking annoying for their own good._

             Stiles goes downstairs to make sure everything's locked just in case this monster thing tries to break in and kill him. Like a locked door is gonna stop it. Stiles gulps as he turns to look out the sliding glass door into the woods. He locks it, and starts to pull the blinds when he hears a low rumble. Squinting, he searches in his backyard, his mind running a constant stream of " _OHSHITOHSHITOHSHIT_ " as his heart starts to pound in his ears. The rumble comes again, sounding a bit closer this time, Stiles unlocking the door and sliding it open to step into the frigid night air. He squints in the shadows, noticing a dark figure in the trees. 

             A thundering roar extravasates inches from Stiles's ear and the figure retreats into the woods while Stiles is held in place by Derek's vice on his shoulder. Stiles's breathing is coming in fast, shaky pants as his head turns to fixate on Derek's claws that are trying hard not to dig into his flesh. Stiles can hear the growls coming from Derek each time he exhales. Stiles slowly turns and puts a hand on Derek's chest in an attempt to calm the older.

             "Derek," Stiles examines Derek's face, his blazing scarlet eyes, his fierce canines, the way his nose is scrunched in a snarl, "calm down. Relax." He feels Derek's heartbeat slow some under his fingers as the crimson eyes focus on him. It seems that Derek's staring at each of Stiles's honey brown eyes individually because his gaze keeps wavering back and forth. His canines retract and his eyes fade back to their pale green color. 

             "I think we should sleep, yeah?" Stiles sees Derek nod in agreement before he has to push the older man away from where he's still staring into the backyard. Stiles locks the door and draws the blinds while he encourages Derek to go upstairs. 

             By the time Stiles gets upstairs, Derek is as close to the edge of the bed as possible, his back pressed against the headboard. He's wearing a bemused expression as his stare is focused on Stiles's lacrosse gear in the corner of his bedroom. Stiles takes the empty spot next to Derek and pulls the chain on his bedside lamp, lying on his back as he traces the pattern on the ceiling with his eyes. 

             "Hey, Derek?"

             "Go to sleep, Stiles."

             "Lay the fuck down and get some rest, sourwolf."

             Derek grumbles and does as he's told, trying so hard not to touch any part of Stiles with his body because he knows if he does, he's fucked himself over twice. He's already drowning in the scent of fresh rain and leaves and nature because he's surrounded by Stiles so much so at the moment, he can even smell the kid's laundry detergent that smells like cinnamon sugar. 

             "Can I ask you something?"

              _'What the fuck does he want now?'_ Derek knows if he doesn't sleep soon he's either going to kick Stiles in the balls or fuck him into tomorrow. " _What_?" he grits through clenched teeth.

             "Why are your eyes red? Like, I know Scott has like, these _gold_ ones and—"

             "I'm an alpha, that's why. Scott's a beta. Now, good night. "

 

—

 

             Derek is up first, being woken up at around 6:30 by Stiles's arm wrapping around his body. Derek notices that he's in the middle of the queen size bed and he rolls over to face the teen that's pressed against him. Stiles is sweating badly and his cheeks are rosy from exertion. His eyebrows are furrowed, like he's in deep thought. Derek catches the scent he'd smelled the night before, the scent he recognizes as the Baku. Growling defensively, he skims the room, using his heat signature tracking to see if he can spot the spirit in the darkness. He sees nothing but growls in the back of his throat again, the scent vanishing just as quickly as it had appeared. 

             Stiles moans something in his sleep, kicking his feet. Derek sits up, his back against the headboard as Stiles starts to get panicky. His lean fingers clench in their place on Derek's side and grasp the fabric of his wifebeater, "N-No..." He writhes around a bit, gasping, "Der-Derek..."

             Derek places his hand gently on Stiles's cheek, rubbing his thumb over the flushed skin. In the same moment, he closes his eyes and clenches his jaw, doing his best to take some of the teenager's pain away, albeit it's only a dream. His veins turn black for a moment before fading back to normal and Derek's heart hurts, feeling the pain, hearing the struggle. His eyes focus on Stiles's lips, parted ever so slightly. He wants to lean down and press a light kiss upon those full lips, to revel in their softness. 

             But he's afraid. He's afraid to let himself succumb to the way his heart languishes for Stiles. He's afraid of what could happen if he lets himself yield to the ache in his soul. Here, lying next to the adolescent that drives him crazy in more ways than one, he feels as if it's intrinsic. It feels right, meant to be. He can sense in his bones that Stiles is his mate, and that he's going to do whatever it takes to keep him safe, even if it means risking his own life. He won't be like Peter. He's going to be the Alpha that Peter liked to _think_ he was.

             But he's terrified. He's terrified because the last time he became close to someone, she literally set his whole world ablaze. She tore him apart, she chained him up in her basement and electrocuted him. She destroyed life as he knew it and she loved every minute of it. He loved her and he was so sure he knew what he was getting into. But now, Derek is in a constant state of paranoia. He never opens up, never gets close to anyone, because everyone close to him gets hurt, and he can't lose Stiles too.

             Derek watches as Stiles's chest rises and falls rapidly because he'd unknowingly removed his hand in the process of his thought. He replaces it though, Stiles unconsciously grasping Derek's wrist to keep it there. Derek sighs and lightly brushes his thumb over Stiles's cheek, waiting, and slowly, the teen's breaths start to even out again.

             When Derek knows Stiles is deep in sleep, he scrunches back down under the blankets and rolls on his side to face Stiles. The light of the waxing moon casts a glow on Stiles's face through the foggy window. Derek reaches up to place a hand flat over Stiles's heart, immediately feeling the pulse jump a bit. Stiles's arm is still wrapped around Derek, but his hand shifts, snaking under the tanktop and resting level on Derek's delineate abdomen, right above the waistband of his boxers.

             Derek feels a low rumble in his throat and clenches his jaw as he tries to will himself under control. He can smell the arousal rolling off of Stiles in waves and he glances over at the teenager who mumbles incoherently, "You're dirty." Derek growls deep in his throat again and he can sense the points of his canines growing sharper, but he wills himself to stop, managing by a miracle to keep himself under control. He huffs and closes his eyes, hand still on Stiles's chest, letting himself fall back into sleep to the rhythm of his love's heartbeat.

—

           The next time Derek wakes up, it's later that Saturday morning. He can't make out the scarlet numbers past Stiles's body tucked against his own back. He doesn't mind it, being wrapped up in Stiles. It smells like the old days with his family when he used to wake up and his room smelled like the woods, the forest, right after the rain poured down the night prior. 

            He takes a deep breath and focuses on his surroundings. He can feel Stiles's hot breath against his ear and the teenager's lanky arms wrapped around his chest. Their legs are interlaced with one another and it feels... _nice_. And Derek actually feels... _refreshed_. He almost never gets a good night's sleep back at his place—maybe because of the fact that his bed's half charred and he hasn't gotten around to getting a real comforter for it yet—and if he does happen to rest, it's maybe for a few moments in his car at a traffic light or something.

            Derek tries to lie still as he feels Stiles shift around a bit, a yawn erupting from the younger boy's mouth. Stiles blinks a few times before he realizes— _holy fuckballs, he's spooning Derek fucking Hale. Shit. Fuck.'Holy Christ, he's gonna fucking kill me and chop my arms off.'_

            "Stiles," Derek grits out, "get off me."

            "Really, Derek?" Stiles snuggles into Derek's back, noting the back dimples that are showing from where the wifebeater had ridden up. "I think this is nice."

            "Get off me _now_." Derek tries moving but it only causes Stiles to flail around more. He pauses, "Stiles, shut up for a second." Stiles abruptly stops thrashing and listens.

            Stiles hears footsteps.

            " _Shit_ , my dad's coming!"

            "Where do I hide?"

            "I don't know! Find _somewhere_!"

            "Stiles—"

            The doorknob turns and Stiles pushes Derek off the bed and—although he isn't prepared—Derek lands quietly on the floor as the sheriff walks in. Derek smirks as he listens to Stiles's heart racing as he spews out lie after lie to the basic parental questions.

            As soon as the sheriff leaves, announcing that he's leaving for work, Derek is pinning Stiles down to the mattress,straddling the teen's waist, hands pushing his shoulders into the bed. "What the fuck was that?" He's baring his teeth, snarling in Stiles's face.

            "Oh, Grandma, what big _teeth_ you have."

            "For Christ's sake! Can't you ever be serious about anything?"

            Stiles points at Derek's chest. "Maybe if you weren't on top of me in your underwear. _Although_ ," he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, "it does seem little Derek may be happy to see me."

            Derek clenches his jaw and wills his face not to turn red as he gets off of Stiles and walks around to the opposite side of the mattress, gripping the edge and lifting it so that Stiles slide off of it and onto the floor. "Take a look in the mirror, _asshole_ , because it looks like _you_ may be just as happy to see _me_." 

            And with that, Derek stalks off to the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Tumblr: AllForStilesTW
> 
> Much love,
> 
> —A


	5. Frayed

 

              Derek got home and immediately knew something wasn't right. He could smell it.

              He smells Kate. It's an unmistakable scent, one he used to adore. It's the smell of basil and mint. She smelled lke herbs, fresh and clean. But now, he's snarling with his teeth bared as he stalks around his house. There's something else mixed with the mint and the basil...it smells almost like... _wolfsbane_.

              Derek growls and runs out of the house as a bullet ricochets off of the wall to his right. The wolf inside wants to break free, Derek can feel it. The inside of his chest burns as the wolf tries so desperately to claw its way out. Derek fights it though, finding the gate in the woods that leads into his basement. He uses his claws to shred through the overgrowth on the wrought-iron gate before he hurries inside and sprints to his basement.

              The scent of mint and basil is strong, mainly because the last time Derek was here was when he was with Kate. She'd brought him down here and chained him up, half naked, while she electrocuted him with a car battery. 

              The memories are vivid and Derek has to brace himself against the wall to anchor himself so that he doesn't shift. Honey brown eyes flicker in and out between hazel ones, the feel of rough hands gripping his shoulders quickly fading into the soft touch of her manicured fingers. The crisp scent of rain and snow is overwhelmed by mint and basil as his wolf howls and snarls rabidly inside of him.

              His mind is flooded with the memories of that night, the electricity flowing through his bones, her tongue licking slowly up his torso. The dull ache in his chest became a searing pain and only once he'd shifted did he know the scent of basil and mint was in his head. Only once he'd made his way back to his house did he realize no one had been there at all, but that his mind was making him hallucinate as his fear of love slowly began to ebb and wane at his sequestered heart.

—

              Stiles is still slightly upset that Derek had left in such a haste. He'd come out of the bathroom in his jeans and _no shirt_ —which may or may not have intensified his morning situation—and just _left_. Stiles could still smell Derek in his bedsheets. It was a consuming aroma of musk and ash, somehow fitting for Derek. _'Probably because he lives in a fucking crematorium,'_ Stiles thinks, making his way into the bathroom. He splashes water on his face and _—'what the hell is this?'_

              Stiles picks up a bottle of aftershave and examines it. ' _Armani_.'  He unscrews the lid and smells it, the scent making him a bit weak in the knees. _'God, that's why Derek always smells so delicious.'_ He notices a blue toothbrush next to his in the holder. Suspicious, he opens the drug cabinet and sees a razor and a small can of shaving cream nestled in the corner of the top shelf, right behind his bottle of Adderall. There is a small note taped onto his medication and a small smile creeps onto his face as he reads it in Derek's voice. _  
_

               _'You need to learn to take this shit. Take it. Right now.'_

              He does—for Derek's sake—take his Adderall. In the back of his mind he has a feeling Derek's going to be back.

              Stiles treads downstairs and spots Derek's leather jacket still hanging on the back of one of the dining room table's chairs. "Shit."

              And then his cell phone rings. It's sitting on the kitchen counter and once he gets a glimpse of the caller ID, he knows he's in deep shit.

              "Hey, Dad."

              _'Stiles, you have some explaining to do.'_

              "I-I don't know what you're talking about."

              He hears his father sign on the other end of the line. _'Did you not think I know what Derek Hale's car looks like? Stiles, he's an alleged criminal!'_

              "Yeah, Dad, _alleged_. Not convicted."

              _'That's not the point. I've been so wrapped up a the station lately because people are dying, son. I know I haven't been home much but that's not an excuse,'_ the sheriff takes a deep breath, _'The point is, you're taking advantage of all of the time I'm working to be involved with a criminal.'_

              "OKAY, Dad, you can just— _stop_ , stop right there. I am not _involved_ with Derek if what you're implying is _sex_. I can't believe you even _said_ that. He's a sulking, self-absorbed sourwol— _puss_ that doesn't care about the feelings of others! I—" Stiles scoffs, running a hand through his hair, hoping he doesn't sound too panicky. "I can't believe you would even _think_ that I was having _sex_ with Derek Hale." Although to Stiles, _sex with Derek Hale does sound fucking mind-blowing._

              _'Then why was he sleeping with you, huh?'_

             Stiles struggles to formulate a reasonable lie. "His house got reclaimed by the county and he doesn't have a place to stay. And I didn't think you'd want him on the couch because knowing you, you'd think he frigging broke in."

             Stiles can practically hear the gears turning in his father's head. _'Well, just—warn me next time, alright? We'll blow up the air mattress for him in your room. I like watching TV on the couch when I get home.'_  

             "Thanks, Dad."

            _'I still don't like him._ ' And he hangs up.

             Stiles lets out a huge breath of relief and has a silent celebration in his mind, reminding himself to call Derek later and tell him that _hey, I need you to keep sleeping over at my house._

             He grabs a pop-tart from the cabinet and lounges on the couch with the case file he'd left on the table last night. He was sure his father would've asked about why the file was out. 

             Skimming through the autopsy photos, Stiles grimaces as he comes upon a particularly grusome one. It looked as if the creature had dug its claws into her lower abdomen and slashed upward with great force, vicerating the lungs and tearing through the ribcage with ease. There were two large puncture wounds on her upper chest, just under her collarbone where it appears that something stabbed her. _'Probably with those fucking horns on its head.'_

  
 Three hours later, Stiles is still on the couch in his boxers. He's typing notes into his laptop, anything he finds important in the case file, anything his mind thinks of. Papers litter the coffee table and Stiles's leg is bouncing frantically, making it harder and harder for him to type. He resigns and sets his laptop on the coffee table, stretching his legs out. Standing, he makes his way up the stairs, tripping over his own feet in the process. He's feeling really anxious and he's already identified all his ADHD symptoms that tell him when he needs to take more Adderall. He knows if he doesn't, he'll start babbling to himself because he talks entirely too much as it is and once he's onto something, there's no point in stopping him. 

             He opens the drug cabinet in the bathroom and takes his meds, his eye catching the note that was still stuck to the bottle. _'Derek's handwriting is so...pretty.'_ Stiles admires the way Derek's letters curl and flawlessly flow into the next. He wishes his handwriting was neat cursive like Derek's, but unfortunately, his thoughts stream entirely too fast and he's forced to scratch down everything he can remember at the moment. 

             Stiles moves into his bedroom, seriously considering not wearing pants for the rest of the day, but decides against it when he thinks about the possibility of Derek returning. He opens his top drawer and pulls out a pair of jeans when he notices something tucked in the corner of his drawer. It's a small velvet box, for jewelry. _'Is this something I bought for Lydia's birthday that I forgot to return?'_ He pulls it out from his clothes and opens it, a small triskele necklace displayed on the cushion. It's silver—extremely tarnished—but silver nonetheless. The cushion it sits on isn't white anymore, but yellowed from age and there's an imprint of the triskele in what looks like soil reminants. He knows, it's definitely not his. The only person he can think of with a triskele thing is—

             "I'm staying again tonight." 

             And if that didn't scare the fuck out of Stiles, then nothing would.

             "Derek!" Stiles almost goes into cardiac arrest and end up falling over his own feet to land on the floor in front of Derek. He looks up at the werewolf and scowls, standing. "Jesus Christ! Don't you know how to knock?"

              "I did. And you didn't answer. So, I let myself in." He snatches the velvet box from Stiles's fingers. "And leave this in here," Derek nestles the box back into the drawer."I need it to stay safe."

              "What is it?"

              Derek sighs and closes the drawer as Stiles tugs on his jeans. "Its a family necklace. It was my mother's, and then my older sister's, and now that they're both gone, I guess...I guess it's mine." His face softened a bit while he reminisced, but immediately hardened again, avoiding looking at Stiles's naked torso. He moves to walk downstairs, glaring at Stiles as he walks out of his bedroom, "And put a shirt on."

               To Stiles, Derek seems grumpier than usual, and Stiles takes that for meaning "something's wrong with Derek". Sign number one was whenever Stiles asked why he came back, Derek growled and issued a threat that usually involved maiming, ripping, or clawing. Sign number two was when Derek brought a duffel bag up to Stiles's bedroom and slid it underneath his bed.

              Stiles finally says something when sign number three almost gets him killed. He'd been waiting for Derek to just sit the fuck down already because Mr. Moody Broody was pacing the entire house for nearly an hour. Stiles needed to talk to him about the case file, so he stood and walked into the kitchen where he came up to Derek, whose back was facing Stiles. Derek was still, rigid. The glass of water he was holding slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.

              Stiles put a hand on Derek's shoulder and spoke in a concerned tone, "Der—"

              Derek spun around viscously, large, wolfy hand around Stiles's throat, pressing the teen up against the wall about a foot off the ground. His eyes were full blown scarlet and his canines were too sharp for Stiles's liking, causing the boy to squirm under Derek's hold.

            "D-Der...ek..." Stiles's hands clutched around the one of Derek's that was crushing his windpipe in an attempt to relieve the pressure. His honey brown eyes searched Derek's crimson ones for any sign of the human alpha, the "I'm going to threaten you and _not_ kill you" Derek, rather than the "I'm going to threaten you and _actually_ kill you" Derek.

            Stiles was gasping, feeling Derek's claws dig into the back of his neck. "D-Der..." His eyes locked with Derek's and suddenly the red faded to jade and Derek's expression went from lividity to horror in record time. He dropped Stiles to the floor and fell to his knees, knuckles white as they fisted his dark hair. He hadn't seen _Stiles_. He'd seen _Kate_. He was choking _Kate_ up against the wall.

            Once Stiles had caught his breath, he reached out and put a hand on Derek's back reluctantly, between his shoulder blades. He felt Derek flinch, but the older didn't show any sign of removing Stiles's hand.

            "Hey," Stiles coaxes, "are you okay?"

            " _Peachy_ ," is the reply.

            "Derek, I can't help you if you don't tell me what happened, alright? So just—just go with it, would ya?"

             He seems to contemplate it before clenching his jaw and standing, finding the broom in the garage to sweep up the glass shards. "Sorry about the glass."

             "Whatever," Stiles brushes it off. It's not like they don't have other glasses.

             Derek carefully sweeps the glass up, in almost a tender way, occasionally glancing up at the teenager that was staring down at him, leg shaking, heartbeat racing. He throws the glass away and approaches Stiles, who's quivering ever so slightly. "You alright?"

            "Yeah, why?" Even the teen's voice in quivering.

            "Because you're shaking and your heart's beating really fast—for _Christ's_ _sake_ , stop bouncing your leg."

             Stiles does, only for a moment, before he starts up again. "I can't. I— _shit_ , it's happening again."

             "What's happening?"

             "They're just side effects of the Adderall. I get anxious and I start shaking like a fucking teacup chihuahua." He can hear his heart pounding in his ears. "It happens every so often. It usually goes away if I eat something." There's usually another side effect that happens, but Stiles knows if he says something, it may jinx it. And Lord knows Stiles doesn't want that last side effect to kick in when Derek's around because he'll be able to smell it with his _stupid fucking werewolf nose._ Derek moves to the couch while Stiles makes himself a sandwich and sits next to Derek, not too close for comfort and not too far to be awkward. His leg starts bouncing again and Derek reaches over and pushes Stiles's knee down and holds it there.

             "Stop."

            _'This seriously cannot happen right now. Stiles, control yourself. Control yourself now.'_ This is what Stiles was worried about when he was prescribed the Adderall. The doctor had told him, _"Certain side effects happen to certain people depending on how your body handles the medication."_ Stiles remembers asking the doctor about the "sexual problems" side effect and he'd responded, _"It's an uncommon side effect and usually decreases libido, while in very few cases increases it."_  Well, apparently Stiles was a rare case because whenever he was particularly stressed or hasn't taken his meds in a while, the side effects happen, including the one where he starts craving _sex_. 

              Stiles squirms away from Derek's hand and gives an uncomfortable smile to Derek's butthurt expression. "I'll be right back. Feel free to look through all the notes I've gotten," he says, standing and pushing his laptop into Derek's hands. He quietly goes upstairs and locks himself in the bathroom, sitting on the cool tile, back against the door. HIs heart is still pounding as he lets his mind wander to where else he'd _love_ Derek's rough hands to be.

              Derek has learned not to question the actions of Stiles, mainly because the kid has ADHD and half of the stuff he does is nonsensical anyways. He'd practically run upstairs, muttering something about _fucking goddamn side effects messing around with my goddamn horomones._ And then Derek smells it, wafting down the stairs. He can feel the pheromones coming from Stiles wrapping around his body, enveloping him and making his wolf claw the inside of his chest in a frenzy. The scent of Stiles changed from rain to a strong pine, and it was driving Derek _crazy_. 

               Derek calms himself down by heading out into the backyard, the scents of the forest clearing out his nose and appeasing the wolf. He sits on one of the chairs on the patio and opens the laptop that's still in his hands. There's notes on two case files in the document, the second case being the one Stiles heard his dad talking about, a suicide. 

              "Looks like it wasn't a suicide after all," Derek murmurs to himself, scrolling through the notes on the man's case file.   _'Lahey. Has a son, Isaac. Why does that sound familiar?'_ He scowls at the screen and notices the injuries on the two bodies are different. The man had a large puncture wound to the side of his head, where one of the Erchitu's horns went straight through his temple, killing him instantly.  The girl on the other hand, had  slash marks up her chest and puncture wounds just under her collarbone. He's intently studying Stiles's notes, when he smells the teen's presence before he sees him. 

               "Isaac goes to school with me. He's on our lacrosse team." Stiles was wearing a different set of clothes than before and Derek assumed he'd just rubbed one out upstairs to satisfy his issue. Derek could still smell the lust and arousal on him though, but it wasn't nearly as potent as before. Stiles drags the other patio chair over next to Derek and he plops down, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He turns his head to the right and studies Derek's face.

              "Derek, are you alright?" 

              Derek looks down and notices he's torn his jeans where his hand was resting on his thigh a moment ago. "I'm fine," he grits out.

             Stiles clenches his jaw and faces Derek, hands flailing. "Look, if you're gonna stay here, you gotta talk to me, dude, alright?" He's shocked when Derek turns to him, eyes crimson. He scans Stiles, making sure his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. "Derek. Come on. We're a pack now."

            No matter how many times Derek denies Stiles being in his pack, he doesn't correct him because he knows that, _well, Stiles is in his pack_. "I _can't_ stay at my house," he answers, eyes dissolving back to their jade color. "I got home and I thought Kate was there. I smelled like her and she shot at me and it turns out, I hallucinated the whole thing." He closes the laptop and hands it back to Stiles. "And then with you in the kitchen, I..." Derek huffs, "I thought you were _Kate_." He pinches the bridge of his nose—something Stiles has taken as a nervous habit—and stands. "I have to stay here for a bit." 

               Stiles knows Derek isn't asking, which he's slightly grateful for considering that otherwise, he'd have to ask Derek to stay over and _Jesus_ , that would've been an awkward conversation. Stiles nods and follows Derek into the house. It's later than he thought, around eight in the evening, and Stiles knows his dad's going to be home soon. _'Best prepare Derek for dinner_.'

              "Hey, Derek. Put on some new pants. You're meeting my dad." 

              Derek growls, listening to the teen because he was nice enough to let him stay. So, he rummages through his duffel bag in search of another pair of jeans. _'Did I not pack fucking jeans?'_ He throws all his clothes out of the bag and sifts through his clothes, finding a few pairs of basketball shorts and sweatpants. _'That's right, I fucking tore my other pairs to shreds.'_ "Stiles," he grunts, shoving his clothes back into his bag, "I need to borrow a pair of pants."

               Stiles peeks his head into the room and reaches into his top drawer, tossing the biggest pair he has at Derek. "I'm gonna go pick up dinner. You like curly fries?" 

              Derek glares at Stiles.

              "I'm gonna get them for you anyway." Stiles leaves and Derek listens to the rattle of his jeep as he pulls down the street.

—

             The sheriff takes a bit of his burger, making a face and giving his son an accusing stare. "Oh, what the hell is this?"

             "Veggie burger," Stiles says, passing the containers of sauces around the table as well as the drinks.

             Stiles gives his dad a look as the sheriff puts his burger down. "I asked for a hamburger."

             "Well, veggie is healthier. We're being _healthy_." He hands his father the side to his burger.

             The sheriff sighs and reaches over to open the lid to the side, revealing celery and carrot sticks. "Why are you trying to ruin my life?"

            "I'm trying to _extend_ your life, okay?" Stiles motions to the food. "Could you just eat it, please? And tell me what you found."

           Derek was wondering if this is how dinner went every night, Stiles bringing home healthy food for his father and shit food for himself and then prying about police information.

          "No, I'm not sharing confidential police information with a teenager and a uh, friend of his." 

            Stiles sips his drink and glances at Derek, then back to his father, craning his neck around his dad to spot a file on the counter. "Is that it on the counter behind you?" The file had spilled open and photos of evidence had tumbled out. The sheriff turns around and Stiles stands a bit to get a better view.

           "Don't look at that."

           "A'ight," Stiles responds, looking to Derek again, who's munching on his curly fries.

           "Avert your eyes."

           "Okay." Stiles sits back down, but his eyes are still locked on the photos.

           The sheriff glares at him. "Hey."

           Derek is amused, sitting back and watching everything unfold, the Stilinskis seeming almost oblivious to his presence.

           Stiles stands up again, looking at the file. "Just—it's just—I see _pictures_ attached to _evidence pictures_ attached to _people's pictures_."

           "Okay, okay, stop. _Fine_." Thoroughly irritated, the sheriff sighs. "I found something."

           Stiles raises his eyebrows expectantly and shoots Derek a look. The sheriff also looks toward Derek, but it's more of a protective parent look. Derek is slightly confused but then  notices how the sheriff kind of looks him up and down and realizes what he must see. _'I'm in Stiles's pants...shit, he thinks we're having sex. That's why he's been giving me that look for the past half hour.'_

            The sheriff proceeds to open the case file and skim through the photos and Derek tunes him out because most of the stuff the Beacon Hills Police Department had figured out was complete bullshit. "So you think it's a serial killer?"

            The attention shifts to Derek. "Yeah," responds the sheriff. "All three victims lived on the same street."

           "Whoa, whoa, _three_?" Stiles scrunches his face up in that adorable confused look Derek loves so much. "Who's the third?" 

           "His name's Matt Daehler. He just moved in on the block, into the Whittemore's house, directly across the street from the Laheys."

           "Matt was on the lacrosse team with me. And Isaac is."

           "One's an incident, two's a coincidence, and—"

           "Yeah, Dad. Three's a pattern."

          Derek knows he has to talk to Isaac. Maybe the kid saw something. He puts another fry into his mouth because _damn_ , now he knows why Stiles loves them so much. _'Speak of the devil,'_ he thinks as the teen takes everyone's garbage and dirty dishes back into the kitchen to wash.

            "Mr. Hale, nice to see you."

            Derek simply nods, "Sheriff." The two weren't necessarily friends, considering last time they'd talked was when Derek was being arrested for the murder of his sister. "And please, call me Derek."

            "Well, _Derek_. I'm warning you now. If you hurt my son, I'll—"

            "Sheriff, are you implying that I'm _dating_ Stiles? Because I can assure you that _we_ ," he gestures toward the kitchen, "are _not_ dating."

            The sheriff isn't convinced though, his eyes narrowing. "Well, whatever you two _are_ doing, just...take care of him, alright?"

           "Of course." Derek feels a warmth spread through his chest, knowing that now, he's solely responsible for Stiles when the teen wasn't with his father. Derek knows he has to be extremely carfeul, extremely alert. Stiles's life is in his hands now, and if he gets hurt under Derek's care, the wolf won't ever forgive itself.

          "There's an air mattress in the closet upstairs. It's all yours." The sheriff stands and migrates to the couch. "And I'll see what I can do about the city reclaiming your family's land."

          Derek is in shock. "The city did wh—"

          Stiles clamps a hand over Derek's mouth."Shut up Derek, I'll explain in a few minutes, okay? Just say thank you and get your werewolf ass upstairs." Stiles whispers it all so fast that Derek barely understands it. Derek glares at Stiles until he takes the hint and hastily removes his hand.

           "Uh, thanks, Sheriff." He waits for the nod of acknowledgement and books it up the stairs.

           Stiles follows suit, giving a good night to his father as he passes him. He walks into the bedroom to see Derek in a pair of basketball shorts and a wifebeater. _'Holy shit, Derek Hale has normal people clothes.'_ Stiles leans on the doorframe and watches, amused, as Derek attempts to blow up the air mattress.  "I'm letting you know now, there's a hole in it somewhere and we can't find it to patch it. So, you pretty much wake up on the floor anyways."

           Derek grits his teeth and rolls it back up, tossing it in the corner. "Then where am I gonna sleep?"

           Stiles crosses his arms and nods toward the bed. "Pick a side, roomie."

           Derek doesn't argue, but merely walks out of the room and into the bathroom. Stiles takes that opportunity to strip himself of everything but his boxers and climb into bed, body slightly achy from the toll of the side effects and Derek fucking _choking_ _him_. Derek returns to the room and he glars at Stiles. "Can you _please_ put some fucking pants on?" 

            "Hey, Sourwolf. You're intruding on _my_ turf, alright? Once again, _my_ house, _my_ rules, buddy."

             Derek huffs but climbs in next to Stiles after taking off his wifebeater and tossing it on top of his bag. Stiles looks at him questioningly, but holy _shit_ , _Stiles_ _likey_. Derek glares at Stiles, pulling the blankets over his lap. "I have a limited amount of clothes and I don't want to have to use all your laundry shit." 

             Stiles shrugs and pulls the chain on his lamp, and just like the night before, Derek's sitting up, leaning on the headboard. "Derek," Stiles says, "don't do this again. For the love of Christ, go to fucking sleep." Stiles rolls over and he hears Derek sigh.

             "Hey, Stiles?"

             "Hmm?"

             "What did you dream about last night?" 

             Stiles had two dreams te previous night. The first was the same dream he'd had about the Erchitu before, the second was one that he wasn't planning on sharing with Derek, especially since said werewolf was the one _in_ the dream snarling at Stiles to _just fuck him already_. Just thinking about it got Stiles a bit hot under the collar.  "Uh, it was the same dream as before."

              Derek seemed to accept the answer, even though he could tell that there was something Stiles wasn't telling him. He could _smell_ Stiles's nervousness, his _arousal_. He just lets it go, knowing it probably isn't worth it to pursue it. He's got so much on his mind that he isn't even tired. He hears the sheriff downstairs, snoring on the couch while the baseball game is still playing on the TV. He hears Stiles's soft snores, knowing that the poor teen was exhausted from a rough, stressful day of Adderall and murders. 

             And two hours later, Derek's still up, thinking. Stiles had cuddled up to him about an hour ago and Derek had slid down into a laying position so that the teen's neck wasn't in such an uncomfortable position. He mindlessly runs his fingers through Stiles's long hair, the monster on his mind. Stiles was starting to get restless, his face scrunching in a painful expression. His mouth opens, as if to scream, but nothing comes out. Derek's eyes flash red and he's ready to slash anyone or any _thing_ 's throat that comes near Stiles. His arm wraps around the teen and he pulls him into his chest as tears fall down Stiles's cheeks. Derek thumbs them away, admiring how Stiles's glows in the moonlight. 

             "D-Don't leave," Stiles whispers, head snuggling closer in the crook of Derek's neck. Derek listens to his heart, noting its steady rhythm. _'He's still asleep.'_  He uses his free hand to wrap the blanket around Stiles's bare shoulders. "Stay....please....Der..."

             "I'm not leaving you, Stiles," Derek whispers back. ' _Fuck it,_ ' he thinks, pressing a chaste kiss to Stiles's forehead. "I'm not going anywhere."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Tumblr: AllForStilesTW
> 
> Much love,
> 
> —A


	6. Heart Monitor

 

 

             The first words out of Stiles's mouth are, "If you get up and leave, I'll tell my dad you're a molester."

             It makes Derek chuckle because, well, he's pining over a sixteen year old when he's practically twenty-two. So in a way, he kind of _is_ a molester.

             Derek just throws Stiles a glare across the table. "Why does it matter?"

             Stiles's mind struggles to formulate an answer. He hasn't taken his Adderall, causing his thoughts to dart around his head at record speeds. "Because you always do that. And then you just magically appear out of thin air and scare the shit out of me."

             Derek knows Stiles has a point. "Well, lucky for you, I don't have anywhere to go." He stirs the now mushy cereal in the tan bowl in front of him. His head is resting on his hand as his werewolf hearing focuses on Stiles's leg nervously bouncing under the table.

             Derek forcefully pushes from the table and the chair he was sitting in makes deep grooves in the wooden floor. He goes upstairs and retrieves the bottle of Adderall, slamming it in front of Stiles's pop tart. "Now. I can't _stand_ your leg bouncing."

             Stiles just calmly watches Derek sit back down at the other end of the table, the older man giving Stiles a daunting glower in return. Stiles slowly takes out two pills and moves his mouth contemplatively, swallowing them down with the glass of milk to his right.

             "You know," Stiles closes the bottle of medication, "I'm _really_ starting to hate that about you."

             "Hate what? I'm just dealing with the constant annoyance that you bring me.

             "Stiles purses his lips. "You're like, an overbearing girlfriend."

              And that gets Derek riled up because his mind flashes to Kate. He's on Stiles like white on rice, fisting his shirt and slamming him against the wall, barely avoiding the china cabinet in the dining room. "Listen to me, you little prick. I could really care less about you taking your meds, alright? I'm _making_ you for the sake of my own sanity," Derek snaps, his hand pressing hard into the center of Stiles's chest, "and I need you to be sane so I can kill this thing. After that, you can be a fucking lunatic for all I care."

             Stiles blinks and his breaths are shaky, the teen seeming to curl into himself to get away from Derek. Derek lets him go and Stiles brushes the wrinkles out of his shirt. "Jesus Christ. _Someone's_ not a morning person."

             "Now tell me what you dreamed about last night." Derek's in Stiles's jeans from the night before, a green flannel shirt adorning his muscular torso, the sleeves scrunched up. Stiles thinks he looks positively delectable. But he's _such_ a dick.

              Stiles whips around, staring at Derek in disbelief. "Are you fucking _kidding_ me?" Derek's expression is unchanged, even when Stiles gets in his face. "You just—you—slamming someone against a wall doesn't really say, _'Hey, I need your help to stop a goddamn murderer, so can you please tell me what the hell you dreamed about last night?'_ now does it?"

             Defeated, Derek sits, periodically clenching and unclenching his jaw. He's huffing in anger and Stiles is unwrinkling his shirt where Derek fisted it. "Alright, you have anger management problems," Stiles states, slightly wincing in preparation for Derek to lash out again. When he doesn't, Stiles continues, "Now, last night was different."

            Derek could sense the fear in Stiles's tone. He could hear the rapid pounding of the teen's heart and the thick metallic scent of terror was washing over Derek in tsunamis.

            "It was almost an out of body experience. I saw myself sleeping. And it was there. It was right next to my bedside," Stiles let out a shaky breath, "it was massive and had horns and rows and rows of razor sharp teeth."

            "What else do you remember?"

            "I remember it killing me, alright? That was extremely unpleasant."

            Derek's heart aches and he gets a sinking feeling in his stomach because he has a feeling that these dreams aren't just dreams.

           "Stiles, I need to kill this thing."

           The teen laughs sarcastically. "Really? I though you were going to take the 'Scott McCall Path' and have a goddamn conversation with it."

           Derek starts clenching his jaw again. "I'm not staying here tonight."

           That makes Stiles's stomach drop. "W-What? Why not?"

           "It won't come here as long as I'm staying. So I'm leaving."

           Stiles feels his heart pound in his ears. _'Is Derek using me as bait?'_ "Derek, you can't—"

           "Stiles, it's the only way. I'm not letting everyone die alright?"

           "So just me?"

            Derek lifts his head and stares at Stiles. "You're not going to die."

            Stiles is on his feet now. He's terrified, he can feel the fear wrapping around his chest and licking around his body. "You're using me as bait! That's all I am to you!" He slams his fists on the table. "You're going to let that thing find my weakness. You're going to let it rip my heart out and crush it!"

             Derek pauses, 'His weakness is the person he loves?' His eyes reduce to slits as he stands and clenches his jaw. "I'm leaving." Derek heads for the door but Stiles puts himself in between Derek and the doorknob.

             "Stiles," Derek grits, "if you want to live through tonight you'll get the _fuck_ out of my way."

             Stiles doesn't budge until Derek's hand roughly pushes his shoulder out of the way, slipping out into the daylight.

 

—

             Stiles approaches the driveway, the house looking a bit rundown, seemingly out of place considering the former Whittemore manor is sitting across the street. There's a lone bicycle on the front lawn and Stiles notes that the wheel is slightly spinning still.

             'He just got home.'

            Stiles cuts the engine and heads up to the front door, attempting a knock, but the slight force of his fist pushes the cracked door fully open.

           "Isaac?"

           The house is dark. Broken furniture litters the wooden floor, Isaac's backpack a small heap by the staircase. The only light comes from the sliding glass door on the opposite side of the living room and the incandescent bulb in the kitchen.

          "Isaac, where are you?"

          Stiles creeps toward the kitchen upon hearing the water start to run. He's clutching the Lahey case file under his arm and he sees Isaac tossing a bloody shirt into the hamper in the bedroom down the hall next to the kitchen.

          "Stiles, I could hear you from a mile away. Your jeep isn't necessarily quiet."

          And then Stiles knows.

          "Derek was here already."

Isaac chuckles. "That bastard's _insanely_ persuasive. I didn't expect to bleed so much before I healed." Isaac's cerulean eyes focus on the file in Stiles's hand. "You came to question me about my dad, didn't you?"

          Terrified, Stiles swallows, nodding.

          "Well the asshole wouldn't kill himself. He had too much pride for that." Isaac's claws emerge. "I hope he's in Hell. He deserves it after the shit he put me through." He huffs and tugs a shirt out of his closet and slips it over his head. "I need to find Derek."

            "Wait!" Stiles reaches out and grabs Isaac's arm before he walks out the door. "Do you know what he's doing?"

            "He's making a pack is what he's doing."

            Stiles watches as Isaac hops on his bike and pedals down the street in search of Derek.

            Stiles purses his lips and heads across the street to the Whittemore manor, now occupied by the Daehler family. A Beacon Hills Police Department car is in the driveway and it looks slightly familiar to Stiles. As soon as the boy is close enough to read 'SHERIFF' on the side of the vehicle, a hand grips his collar and pulls him to the car.

            "Hey dad."

            "Stiles! What the hell?"

            "I was just visiting Isaac. He hasn't been at lacrosse practice so I figured, y'know, I'd see if he was okay." Stiles knows he's a pretty damn good liar but he still prays to Christ that his father can't decipher the lie that he'd just formulated.

             The sheriff lets go of Stiles. "Just be careful. We don't know who's killing people."

             'Or what,' Stiles thinks, slowly making his way back to the jeep parked in the Lahey driveway.

             When he arrives home, he digs out the Daehler file to compare it with the others. Matt Daehler's wounds are consistent with Heather's. A chill runs down his spine, and he feels something in his gut that tells him that these aren't just random killings. Something also tells him that he's more at risk than he thinks.

             A knock on the front door jolts him from his thought, Scott not waiting for an answer before he barges into Stiles's house.

             "I heard your heartbeat outside."

             "Fucking _werewolves_ ," Stiles mutters, putting a hand over his chest.

             "Where's Derek?"

             Stiles scoffs, flipping through autopsy photos. "Not here. Why don't you send him a howl or something?"

             Scott puts a hand on his best friend's shoulder in an attempt to calm him. He can feels Stiles's heart thudding quickly under his fingertips. "Why are you so bitter?"

             "Because Derek's an asshole and I'm going to fucking die tonight _because_ Derek's an asshole." Stiles stares at the autopsy reports for what seems like hours while Scott rubs his shoulder.

             "You're not gonna die. As much as we both hate Derek, he always comes through, you know this." Scott seems the back up a little before sitting across from Stiles at the table. "Speaking of Derek, you reek like him. It's disgusting."

             Stiles's eyes shift to Scott and glare at him. He smells his shirt. _'Smells like Stiles.'_ He smells his arms and his shirt again. "I smell like Stiles."

             Scott scrunches his nose. "No, you stink like Derek. Have you—" Scott's eyes widen and a small grin creeps up on his face. "Have you guys been _sleeping_ together? Did you _finally_ get laid? Stiles, I'm so—"

             " _NO_. NO NO NO NO _NO_. We did not have _sex_ , Scott. Jesus Christ, _NO_. Can we just—change the subject, _please_."

             "Have you found anything?"

             "Yeah, I have. I tried talking to Isaac today but did you know, hey, he's a _werewolf_ now? Fucking Derek's building a pack."

             Stiles sees the shock wash over Scott. "Isaac? But why?"

             "Ask sourwolf," Stiles flips through some photos and comes upon Heather and Matt. "These two. Same injuries. Lahey, totally different." Stiles wracks through the information floating around in his head. "Hey, Scott? Was Matt a virgin?"

             And Scott nearly chokes on the water he's taken out of the fridge. "W-What? Why would you ask me that?"

             "One, you talked to him more than I did. That kid just _radiated_ evil." Stiles grimaces, searching through the pile of papers on the table. "Two, I figured Allison may have told you. Y'know, when you two went through that rough patch and she dated him and they—"

             " _I get it_ ," Scott grits out, claws beginning to emerge as the thought enrages him.

             "And three, can't you smell it? Did he ever smell like virgin? I don't even know if virginity has a smell. Did he smell virginly, holy, pure?"

             Scott throws him a glare.

             "I'll ask Allison then."

             "Yes," Scott stops him, "yes. He was a virgin. Allison said he never tried anything on her because he wanted to keep his virginity. Satisfied?"

             It all starts to click, the gears turning in Stiles's brain. "Heather was a virgin, too. I remember going to her birthday party a couple months ago. She'd brought me to the wine cellar and told me she didn't want to be a seventeen year old virgin. I wanted to help her, Christ knows I did, but I couldn't. I had to tell her. She seemed a bit disappointed at first, but then she smiled and was rambling about how I'd be her best friend."

             Stiles sighs. "I think I know what's happening."

 

—

             Stiles storms into Hale manor. "Derek?" He glances down at his watch, the white face reading 6:57. The sun was setting and the woods were starting to grow darker by the second. "Derek, I know what's happening."

             The dilapidated shutters on the window bang against the side of the charred house as the wind starts to pick up. It sends a chill up his spine, the way the night is creeping up on the Hale house.

             A growl startles Stiles, sending him into the decaying wall behind him, away from the staircase. His heart feels as if it's going to pound out of his chest. He turns his head away from the red eyes stalking toward him and his shoulder is dusted with a purple powder, the sweet scent fills his nose. ' _Wolfsbane_.'

             Another growl draws his attention to Derek, in full alpha form, snarling and gnashing his teeth.

             "Remember when I said teeth gnashing gets you nowhere? Well, that was a lie. This is pretty fucking terrifying." Stiles gulps and bares his throat to Derek, sinking to his knees and submitting to the alpha. _'I hope this saves my life.'_

             Stiles feels the moist breath of Derek huffing over his jugular, the growl resonating deep in Derek's throat vibrating Stiles's bones.

             Derek catches the scent, it smells like mint and rain and one second he's looking at her and the next he's looking at him. He isn't sure what's real and what's fake, but whoever it is is bearing their throat and Derek doesn't know whether to tear it out or kiss it. He's growling and he isn't sure why. He feels out of control, like his body's not his anymore.

             "Derek," it says, "it's me." The voice is soft and masculine. But then, it's feminine and it's got Derek growling again. _"Remember all the hot sex we had?"_ Derek practically feels her tongue dragging its way up his abdomen and he snarls, closing in on the figure.

             "Derek, it's Stiles. The annoying one you hate so much?" And Derek sees the honey brown eyes in front of him, the terror in their pupils before they turn hazel, demanding and fearless. They glint with mischief.

             Derek doesn't know what to do, but then the smell makes him cringe. It's a scent of rotting flesh, of maggots and decay. He hears it before he sees it. Its body is heavy and causes each of its steps to thud against the ground. It reeks of dirt and garbage, and Derek sees Stiles's eyes locked on something with sheer panic in his features.

             Shifting to his half form, Derek turns and is tossed to the stairs as the Erchitu's claws drag across his stomach.

             "Run, Stiles!"

             Derek picks himself up and roars before grasping the beast's arm, sinking his canines into it and swinging it into the floor. Stiles races out to his jeep and has trouble before the ignition catches.

             "Derek!" he screams, hoping the wolf is paying attention, "Stay out of the house! It's laced with wolfsbane!" Stiles floors it, the jeep's tires skidding on the dried leaves before swerving around a few trees and disappearing in the forest.

             Derek pushes the monster outside and into the base of a tree trunk, leaves raining down onto the forest floor. The tree gives a groan before the Erchitu gets up, huffing before it regains its balance and roars at Derek. The alpha dodges the lumbering creature and it reaches out, clawing Derek across the thigh.

             The alpha howls, tumbling onto the ground. He doesn't feel himself healing, but picks himself up. It stings, a searing sensation ripping through his stomach and his leg. He can hear the creature approach and Derek looks up, eyes flaming, ready to attack when a claw tears across his right cheek and down his shoulder. It digs into Derek's arm, tossing the wolf into a tree trunk. His body limply falls to the ground and everything starts to get fuzzy, his wolf vision fading in and out. He can hear the Erchitu huffing faintly before blood spews out of his mouth, his lower abdomen punctured by the two large horns on top of the monster's head.

             Derek's mouth opens to scream but no noise comes out. A gurgling in his throat brings a taste of copper pennies across his tongue. The monster drops Derek on the ground when the alpha gathers all his strength and slashes across the Erchitu's eyes. It roars and blindly charges into the woods, leaving Derek spitting out black, his body aching and burning.

 

—

             Stiles is in front of his computer, furiously typing away on the MacBook. His mind is whirring a mile a minute and his chest is heavy because something doesn't feel right.

             He knew leaving Derek in the forest was a bad idea. He's been kicking himself ever since he drove away. That thing was huge, it's entire body covered in hair. The horns on its head were massive, looking about two to three feet, pointed and ribbed.

             He's writing down everything he remembers so he knows what to expect. He's trying to match the creature to the murders. He knows what's going on.

             Stiles practically jumps out of his skin when he hears something bang against the roof, his heart fluttering in panic. He goes over to the window and a bloody hand reaches out against the glass, Derek's face inches behind it. Stiles shoves the window open and grabs the shreds of Derek's shirt to pull him inside the room before his exhausted body rolls off the roof.

             Derek's wheezing, his mouth stained red. Blood trickles from a wound on his head and from his mouth, trails leading under his chin and down his neck. He has marks slashing across his stomach and down his shoulder, the blood starting to turn black.

             "Oh my God," Stiles whispers, pulling off the shredded flannel.

             "How bad is it?" Derek manages to breathe out.

             Stiles examines him. He's fixed up Scott before but Scott's never had anything like this happen to him. "The 'oh my God' would've been for your incredible physique, if it weren't for the fact that you're bleeding black blood," Stiles remembers the last time he saw the black blood. " _Fuck_ , Derek, you're not dying, are you?"

             Derek's body lay still on the floor.

             "Derek?"

             The alpha's head seems to bobble to the side, incoherent and fading.

             "Derek, stay with me."

             Stiles's heart thuds heavily in his ears, seeming to echo in his skull. He can't tell if Derek's breathing so he leans down to Derek's chest, listening for a heartbeat.

             It's faint.

             The teen reaches in his pocket and dials Deaton, getting voicemail. He tries again and again, becoming more frustrated, before he gives up and yells in rage, jolting Derek awake as the phone is thrown against the wall. Derek's head lolls to the side and his chest heaves before rising and falling slow and faint.

             "Shit," Stiles reaches underneath his bed to pull out the first aid kit he keeps stashed under there, "I better still have fucking gauze."

             He opens the kit and finds everything but gauze. "Fucking Scott," he mumbles, eyes trained on Derek. His clothes are dusted with purple and soil, leaves sticking to his jeans. The alpha stirs, coughing up blood, just as he did when he was shot in the forest a few days prior. "Shit, Derek. What've you gotten yourself into?" Stiles runs his fingers through the matted black hair on Derek's head before sprinting to the bathroom to run a bath. He turns both faucets and listens to the water pour into the tub before he hoists Derek to his feet and drags him to the bathroom.

             Stripping Derek of his clothing, he lowers the wolf into the warm water with hopes that a little care would heal the wounds.

             His heart beats terrifyingly fast as his hands reach for a washcloth from the cabinet under the sink. Stiles is shaking from nervousness as he turns the water off and starts dabbing at the wounds on the alpha's face.

             "Derek," Stiles whispers, nausea washing over him in realization that he was losing Derek, "please don't die. Don't you _dare_ leave me."

 

—

             The bell rings faintly in the small clinic and Deaton's voice comes from the exam room. "We're closed."

             Deaton senses that the person hasn't left and rolls his eyes, making his way to the front of the clinic. He sees the man standing next to the counter, dripping blood on the pristine tile floor.

             "I need you to fix me up," he says, his voice without fear and thick with anger.

             "We're _closed_ ," replies Deaton, his tone steady and unchanging.

             The man chuckles, his white hair matted down with dirt and sweat, black blood dripping from a bite mark on his forearm and from his nose. A gash above his eyes dripped blood down his face.

             "If you haven't noticed, this isn't a hospital. It's a veterinary clinic," Deaton continues, staying bolted to his place on the ground.

             "Lucky for me then," the man's slight Canadian accent appears in his words and upon stepping into the ray of moonlight, he looks about in his sixties. He looks familiar to Deaton, but he isn't able to determine the man's identity. "Because I'm not human anymore." His eyes flash scarlet before horns start to sprout from his head, the bones in his body shifting until he's twice his original size. He towers over Deaton, huffing and roaring like a bull.

             Deaton sighs, knowing full well if he doesn't help, he's dead. He pushes open the gate and the creature transforms back, the man smirking.

             "It's been a while, Alan. Last I'd heard, you'd retired."

             And Deaton immediately knows who it is. "Last I'd heard, you followed a code of conduct."

             The man laughs a menacing laugh. "No code, not anymore."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on tumblr: AllForStilesTW
> 
> Much love,
> 
> —A


	7. Restraint

 

 

             Stiles debates whether or not to take the couch that night.

             He settles in next to Derek instead, to make sure the alpha is okay. Stiles knows the alpha just needs a lot of time to recover. But what is he supposed to tell his dad about this? He's managed to clean up the blood from his floor and the bathroom and tossed Derek's shredded clothes. Getting Derek out of the bathtub was a chore, especially because the wolf was semi-conscious and covered in injuries. 

             Stiles managed though, carrying Derek into his room and not bothering to dress him in clothes he brought, just slipping Derek into a pair of his own wide waistband Batman briefs and sweatpants that just barely fit the man. He bandaged Derek up, his head, shoulder, abdomen, and various other places wrapped in gauze he'd dug out of the back of his jeep. Now, the wolf was sound asleep, tucked into the warmth of Stiles's comforter. 

             Stiles's heart aches seeing Derek vulnerable like this. It's nearly two in the morning and Stiles can't sleep at all, not while Derek's like this. His back is up against the headboard and he sighs to himself at the irony of the situation. The fact that he was sitting up worrying just as Derek had done a few nights before. Although, Stiles's mind is whirring. He's _terrified_ for Derek, for himself. He doesn't know what to expect, how he's going to handle it. He doesn't know how to protect himself, for he's only human. He also doesn't know how to protect _Derek._  

             Stiles's mind stops though, when Derek rolls over and splays an arm over Stiles's abdomen. It brings a smile to the teen's face because Derek looks so serene, the way the moonlight shadows the right side of his face and illuminates the left. Stiles slinks down so that he's laying flat instead of against the headboard and Derek unconsciously cuddles up to him, the alpha's scruff scratching the crook of the teen's neck. 

—

             It seems that their lips fit together perfectly, smoothly sliding against the other's. It's hot and passionate, because he's waited for this. He's waited _so long_. His wolf stirs inside, growling, ' _MATE_.' He's drowning in the smells of nature, of fresh rain and strong pine and Derek is in bliss. His hands are running up the forming abs underneath the campy Batman tee, his lips on fire from the way the teen's tongue begs for entry. 

             And Derek allows it. He feels his control slipping, the way it does when he's angry. But this isn't anger driving him. It's his want, his _need_. He craves Stiles, all of him. He's growling and he doesn't even realize he's literally ripping Stiles's shirt in two in his attempt to remove it. 

             " _Fuck_ ," he mutters and Stiles laughs, untangling himself from the fabric. 

             "That was my favorite one."

             Derek's mouth latches onto the teen's once more. "I'll buy you a new one," he mumbles against Stiles's lips, his heart throbbing in his chest. 

             Stiles's hands wrench loose from the hand Derek's using to pin them over his head and start running them over the shreds of green flannel that cling to Derek's body. 

             And Derek feels it, the ache in his bones swells to pulsing pain. His breathing becomes more ragged as Stiles trails his lips over Derek's scruffy jawline and down his neck. 

             "Stiles..." is all he can manage before he tears himself away from the teen and hunches against the corner of the bedroom. 

             Stiles pants heavily, stepping away from the wall and kneeling beside Derek's curled form.

             " _Hey_ ," he says, "it's okay."

             Derek looks up at him with scarlet eyes and razor sharp canines. "It's _not_. I'm a monster."

             Stiles smiles and sits against the wall, reaching to Derek's claws and pulling the alpha in between his spread legs so that the wolf can lean back against his chest. "I've told you, Derek. You're _not_ a monster. You're a _hero_. And I love you, _all_ of you."

             "Even _this_?"

             "Yes, even this."

             Derek melts into Stiles as the teen's nimble fingers remove the shreds of clothing from Derek's battered frame, a pair of soft lips trailing kisses along the older's shoulders and neck. Derek feels his wolf roaring inside of him and he lets out a low growl, a rumble deep in his chest. He can feel Stiles smiling against his sweat-slicked skin, and it makes Derek grin too, the alpha tilting his neck to one side to give Stiles more access. 

             Derek feels it. The passion. It heals him. The wounds on his face, on his shoulder, his chest, start to close as Stiles's teeth graze his jawline. His claws dig into the wooden floor because fuck, the kid knows how to use his tongue. It's licking along the nape of his neck and Derek growls again, a low moan tearing from his throat. Stiles brings his hands around the alpha's chest and slowly, tantalizingly fumbles with Derek's belt before they pop the button on his jeans and rub along the V of Derek's hips. 

             Derek moans low again, his claws dragging along the floor. "Fuck, _Stiles_ ," he breathes, pushing his hips up into the teen's touch, "do _something_."

             And Derek roars when the blunt, human teeth sink into his shoulder. He's sweating, his wolf clawing inside. He backs up against Stiles, his butt coming in contact with the bulge in the front of Stiles's jeans. Derek's panting at the sound of the harsh breath Stiles draws in. 

             "Shit, Derek, _God_." 

             Derek's head cranes to see Stiles flustered and mussed, his chest heaving. And it's the hottest thing he's ever seen. He's leaning forward to capture his lips when he feels a sting in his shoulder—

—

             Derek roars as he wakes up, his shoulder bleeding through the gauze. His whole body aches as sweat drips down his chest. In seconds, Stiles is in the doorway, a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and a roll of gauze in his hands. He mumbles something but Derek can't make it out, so he settles for nodding, eyes following Stiles as he runs out of the room. 

             The teen returns with the roll of gauze, a washcloth, and a bottle of alcohol, coming to Derek's side with minty breath. 

             "Are you okay?" Stiles questions, the scent of peppermint ghosting past Derek's nose. "What happened?" Stiles tugs down the covers and pushes lightly on Derek's lower back, getting the alpha to straighten so that he can change the bandages. 

             Derek hisses as Stiles's touch sends fire straight to his crotch, warmth spreading throughout his entire body. His dream vividly flashes in his mind and he desperately tries not to growl as Stiles removes the gauze from his chest and his shoulder. 

             "I must have twisted wrong and— _fuck_!" Derek lets loose a loud rumble, half in lust, half in pain. Stiles smiles sheepishly and dabs the alcohol-soaked cloth at the wound again. 

             "Sorry," he mutters, face flushed. He goes to put more alcohol on the cloth but Derek's hand firmly grips his wrist. 

             "Don't. I'm fine," he grits.

             Stiles wrenches his hand free and continues anyway. "No you aren't." He looks at Derek's sour face and he reaches out, fingers lightly touching Derek's skin. "Derek, _this_ isn't fine." Stiles stares at Derek in disbelief when the alpha shrugs. His honey brown eyes roam over the expanse of Derek's skin. "Derek, look at this." His fingers run over the inflamed area around the wound. His thumb brushes over the stitches he'd put in the day before and he freezes, body going rigid and Derek shudders as Stiles's hand stays in place on the wound on his shoulder. 

             "Stiles?"

             Stiles doesn't hear him. What he does hear is roaring, growling, leaves crunching. He opens his eyes and he's in the woods, and Derek's running out of the house and swinging at the beast getting up at the base of a tree. 

             "Derek!" he yells, running over to the alpha that just took a claw to the thigh. Stiles screams as pain sears through his own thigh, his stomach burning as well. He lifts his shirt to reveal claw marks, blood dripping down his abdomen. He's panting, leaning against a tree to brace himself as he watches the battle in front of him, catching glimpses only from the moonlight shining down into the trees. 

             He screams when he feels the skin ripping across his cheek and down his shoulder, something tearing through the muscle in his forearm. He's on the ground in agony, eyes glued to Derek's body slumped against the tree. He sees the beast rearing, huffing, and he's mustering all of his strength to yell once more to the alpha, "DEREK!" even though he knows the wolf can't hear him. And Stiles's hands cover the blow to his abdomen, and he can feel the horns impaling his body, his mouth open in a silent scream. He tastes the metal in his mouth before blood flows down his chin and he limply falls in the dirt, barely hearing Derek muttering something about Stiles before he succumbs to the pain.

             Derek's still staring at Stiles when the teen gasps, face full of fear. He's been out of it for about ten minutes and it seems that Derek moving his hand from their place on his shoulder snapped him out of whatever trance he was in. 

             "Stiles? Are you alright?"

             The teen slowly nods, face pale as he life his shirt and drags his fingers across his smooth abdomen. He reaches up and touches the side of his face, his fingers feeling for any imperfections. "I-I was there. With you. Last night," he whispers, sitting back on his knees. "I felt it, _everything_. I _watched_ it. I saw you fighting and then you got hit and so did I."

             Derek searches his mind for an explanation, but nothing. "Stiles, I—"

             "Let me try another spot."

             Derek ponders it for a moment before giving in and nodding. 

             Stiles makes him turn and places his hands along the scrapes on Derek's lower back. 

             Stiles is out of it for about two, three minutes and the whole time Derek watches him, the way his eyes are closed and his lips parted, the feel of his soft fingers on his lower back. He feels his wounds become a little less painful and when he looks down at his tattered abdomen, everything becomes a little less red and it closes up just a little. 

             Stiles focuses on Derek and tells him, "I saw you come in my window. You got those scrapes when I yanked you in so you wouldn't fall off the roof."

             Derek searches Stiles's face and the boy is terrified, Derek knows. "We need to see Deaton. Now."

             "We can go later," Stiles drones, clearly out of it. "Let me finish fixing you up."

             Derek doesn't argue, knowing full well that Stiles is scared and more vulnerable than he's ever been. He knows Stiles hates him, by the way they act around each other and how his anger flares up around the teen. Better to keep the kid off his case instead of mounting him and keeping them tied together forever, right?

             He lets Stiles clean the wounds and they sting, Derek's wincing the whole time but still doesn't protest. He wants Stiles to be okay. 

             He's deep in thought and Stiles has to snap his fingers in front of the dead look in Derek's eyes for the alpha to focus again.

             "Hmm?"

             Stiles simply tugs on the waistband of Derek's sweats. 

             The alpha furrows his brow.

             "Derek, I need to get to your thigh. Take 'em off."

             Trying not to look surprised, he complies, raising his hips as Stiles slinks the pants down to Derek's ankles. He sees the gruesome gash on his upper thigh, uncovered by the Batman briefs he's wearing...that _aren't_ his. He catches the scent coming off of them and it smells like fresh laundry, like cinnamon sugar and rain, and Derek has to reign himself in because the blood is starting to rush south. 

             Stiles cleans the wound and rewraps the gauze. He rewraps Derek's shoulder, his abdomen, and his back, having the alpha turn so that Stiles can look at the side of his face. 

             Derek winces and glances at Stiles's lips, only inches from his own. His eyes flicker red and waver up to Stiles's eyes, the honey brown orbs focused on his jade ones. It takes Derek's breath away and his eyes go red once more, his heart thumping heavily in his chest. 

             Stiles drops the cloth in his hand and it falls into Derek's lap, effectively snapping the pair out of their trance. 

             Derek brings his hand up to the side of his face and Stiles goes out of the room only to return with a large bandage and roll of medical tape. He covers the gash on Derek's face and tapes the bandage on, tossing a shirt at Derek from his bag under the bed. 

             "I made pancakes, if you're up for it."

             Derek nods and watches Stiles leave the room before he falls back on the bed and huffs, feeling his dick throbbing with need. "Fuck," he mutters, "what the hell did I get myself into?"

—

             "We could've taken my car."

             "You're in no condition to drive Derek."

             The alpha knows Stiles is right. "Whatever. Just—where are we going?"

             "The Sheriff's Department. I have to bring my dad some lunch."

             "No!"

             Stiles swerves in surprise and pulls over, glaring at Derek. "Why not?"

             "I'm an alleged criminal. How well do you think it'll blow over that the Sheriff's son is harboring a criminal, huh?"

             Stiles grits his teeth. "Y'know, I think if _I_ wanted, I could drag your little werewolf ass out in the middle of the road and leave you for dead!"

             "Start the car."

             Stiles looks at him, a tinge of humor in his features. "I don't think you're in any condition to be making demands."

             "Stiles, start the car or I'm going to rip your throat out. With my teeth."

             Stiles sighs and thinks about it for a moment before he starts the car and drives to Deaton's first instead of the Sheriff station. 

             The parking lot is deserted when the pair arrives. Deaton's car sits in the front parking spot as usual.

             "Let's go Derek."

             "Wait."

             "What now? I need to bring my dad lunch! Get your ass out of the car."

             "Something's wrong." 

             Stiles approaches the door and sees the handle stained with dried blood. 

             "Derek. It was here."

             Stiles enters the clinic and takes note of the trashed exam room. 

             "And Deaton's gone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you figured out who the Erchitu is? Comment who you think it is!  
> PLEASE REVIEW! I THRIVE ON THOSE.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr: AllForStilesTW
> 
> Much love,
> 
> —A


End file.
